


The one where Sherlock is completely out of his depth

by SlytherinsDragon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A mention of sounding, Aftercare, Anal Beads, Anal Fingering, Anal Gaping, Anal Play, Anal Plug, Beach Sex, Blindfolds, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Boys Kissing, Breathplay, Breeding, Caning, Cock Cages, Cock Rings, Confused John, Consensual, Consensual Non-Consent, Corsetry, Crossdressing, Daddy Kink, Dildos, Dirty Talk, Dom!Mycroft, Dom/sub, Enemas, Exhibitionism, Face Slapping, Face-Fucking, Felching, Feminization, Figging, Fisting, Fluff, Forbidden Love, Forced Orgasm, Frottage, Fucking Machines, Gags, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, Impact Play, Interrogation, It's For a Case, Jealous Sherlock, Kidnapping, Kink Exploration, Kink Negotiation, Knifeplay, Lingerie, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Marking, Master/Slave, Multiple Orgasms, Mycroft Feels, Nipple Clamps, Nipple Piercings, Nipple Play, Nosy John Watson, Omorashi, Or Is It?, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Overstimulation, Painplay, Piercings, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Behavior, Post-Coital Cuddling, Praise Kink, Predicament Bondage, Prostate Milking, Public Sex, Punishment, Reichenbach Never Happened, Relationship Negotiation, Restraints, Riding Crops, Rimming, Roleplay, Rope Bondage, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Sexting, Sexual Fantasy, Shameless Smut, Sherlock in Heels, Shower Sex, Somnophilia, Spanking, Spitroasting, Subdrop, Subspace, Suspension Bondage, Table Sex, Thailand, Vacation, Vibrators, Virgin Sherlock Holmes, Virginity Kink, Voyeurism, Watersports, Wax Play, Whipping, a growing list of kinks and toys, gradual depravity, holmescest, mention of drugs, slut!Sherlock, sub!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2020-04-06 23:26:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 106,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19072840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/pseuds/SlytherinsDragon
Summary: Sherlock asks his brother for help on a case. It goes in an unexpected direction.----------“You know how I feel about everything.” Sherlock says – thinking about everything he has written. He had explicitly written in his second paper that he had fantasized about being owned by Mycroft. “I don’t know what you want out of such an arrangement, brother.”Mycroft smiles – shark-like. “You will never be the same again, brother.”“I think it’s already too late.” Sherlock rests his head against his brother’s thigh.“If you think you’ve already reached the depths of depravity – think again. I will ruin you – completely and utterly.” Mycroft says in a warning tone. “There is a big difference in what it means to be mine and what we have now.”





	1. The First Taste

**Author's Note:**

> I woke up with this idea. Although, I couldn't come up with a satisfactory title for this...
> 
> Warning: This story is literally page after page of unrepentant porn. If that's not what you are here for, do not proceed any further!  
> However, there is a plot somewhere...

“Let me get this straight, little brother – you want to go into this highly secretive and exclusive club for a case… And you have no experience with –“

“Well, besides the time with Irene –“

Sherlock trails off when Mycroft’s face grows dark; his brother is not fond of _The Woman_ whatsoever. But, Mycroft schools his features back to their default impassive state, and continues onwards, “If you do not have any experience with playing the Dominant role, brother – then there is no way you can fake your way into such an exclusive locale – regardless of how talented an actor you are. It is something that requires practical experience.”

Sherlock sighs deeply – he really needs to get into the private office of a potential suspect, and he had come to ask big brother to get him access into the club. He asks, “What can I do instead? It is of utmost importance.”

“It is easier if you play the Submissive role, brother –“

He almost chokes – god – him playing the submissive role? Mycroft surely must be kidding. And who on earth is going to be his Dominant? Nope – he couldn’t see himself obeying anyone on this planet anytime soon. But then again – this is for a case – and he really needs to get into that damned office.

And the lead is a good one. Or so he hopes.

Desperate times could call for some truly desperate measures.

There is a feral glint in Mycroft’s eyes – a scary look on big brother. It is as if his brother can read all of Sherlock’s thoughts – as if they were written plainly on his face.

Mycroft says simply. “I can do it.”

Sherlock almost spits out all the tea that he had just drank. Did he need to get his hearing checked? Is incest not illegal in this country? Is his brother crazy?

And is he truly that desperate?

“Brother, it is the simplest way – I do have a membership to that club, although admittedly I don’t go there very often. Clubs that exclusive guarantee anonymity so there will not be any nasty blackmailers to deal with after the fact. There are more sordid secrets going on in those scenes than a little spanking between brothers. And, somehow – I don’t see you behaving for any other Dominant I know of.” Mycroft permits himself a smirk as the last sentence leaves his lips. Casually, he lifts his teacup and sips at the hot liquid.

Intrigued, Sherlock asks – a tad bratty, “What makes you think I would behave for you, big brother?” His fingers reach forward for one of those delectable ginger nuts that his brother had thoughtfully supplied for the afternoon tea.

“Call it a hunch, brother mine.” Mycroft’s smirk has reached his eyes. There is almost a silky, seductive quality to his brother’s syllables now – it sends a queer tingle down Sherlock’s spine – he is starting to realize that just maybe he is inviting more trouble than this entire case is worth. Even the way his brother’s fingers caress the solid and expensive wood of the dining table seems to be calculated. It is obvious that his brother has a vast amount of experience playing this particular game. If he had any sense of self-preservation left in his body – Sherlock muses – it might be a good time to flee. “I do like a challenge.” Mycroft adds; there is a mischievousness in his brother’s voice that Sherlock has not heard since he was a child.

Sherlock feels like he has fallen into an alternative universe. His ever-thinking brain is starting to think about what kinds of things his brother might be into. Unfortunately for him, he has excellent theoretical knowledge, but no practical experience. “Sounds dangerous, brother.” He voices a thought.

Mycroft laughs genuinely. “Oh, little brother… there is nothing dangerous about it. Everything is sane and consensual. Unless, of course – sex does alarm you?” His brother looks curiously at him, while repeating a question that had been asked years ago.

He wants to go disappear somewhere. Anywhere. Of course, there is nothing wrong with being a virgin in one’s thirties but admitting that verbally to his brother might be a bit more than he is currently willing to bear.

Instead, he drinks more tea.

“Sherlock, Sherlock…” His brother reaches over to grab his wrist. “There is nothing wrong with inexperience – although I am amazed you were never curious enough to try anything.”

“I can’t even stand most people.” Sherlock finds himself saying. “How could I bear to have sex with them?”

Although his brother does not put his thoughts to words – Sherlock could deduce that Mycroft is currently thinking of John Watson and Irene Adler. Sherlock shakes his head; Irene he had been tempted by – but he had not been lying to John all those years ago; women were not his area. And John has a complex in regard to being referred to anything but being straight. Sherlock wouldn’t dream of approaching him, even if he was interested.

“Safe word, brother mine. And what are your limits?” Mycroft moves on from the topic.

Sherlock blinks – feeling suddenly overwhelmed.

“We need a safe word, brother.” Mycroft repeats himself patiently.

“Redbeard.” Sherlock says – it was the first word that popped up in his mind – his first and only dog. Maybe he should get another one after this case. “And I don’t know what I like and don’t like.”

“Fine, we will figure it out together, then.” Mycroft replies. He smiles at him, “I am going to enjoy teaching you, brother mine – even if this is just for a case.” Mycroft’s hand then slaps the table – it is more loud than forceful – a promise of things to come. “The things I am going to do to you.”

Yup – he is truly and utterly out of his depth. One might even say – he is fucked.

And, Mycroft is enjoying this far too much for Sherlock’s liking.

.

.

How did he even get into this situation? Sherlock thinks as he finds himself draped across Mycroft’s lap – face down towards the cushions of the couch. His brother has generously allowed him to keep his dress shirt on, but his bare bottom, genitalia and the rest of his lower limbs are exposed to the air; his cock is pressed uncomfortably against his brother’s thigh. His instinct had been to close his thighs, but Mycroft had gently slapped them apart – denying him this modicum of modesty. He really feels the power differential – him half dressed, while his brother is still clad in his immaculate bespoke suit. Mycroft has him firmly pinned down – there is no way he could ever dream of escaping, while his right knee is slightly raised, further elevating Sherlock’s bum.

All this for a case… Sherlock could only pray that it would be worth it. Although – he cannot think of anything that is quite worth the indignity of this! And some treacherous part of his mind is quite curious about how this entire experience would play out. While another part of him wonders – is it normal for a brother to enjoy spanking his little sibling? Considering all the shit he has done to Mycroft over the years – maybe his brother has been dying to give him the spanking that he no doubt deserves. And has taken this golden opportunity to dish it out.

Now that is a thought.

“Safe word?” Mycroft asks – all business.

“Redbeard.” He finds himself replying.

“You don’t have to count for me – this time.” His brother says.

He feels Mycroft’s dominant hand brush lightly over the skin of his arse, before the first smack lands on his right buttock. The suddenness and the loudness of the action startles him more than the pain – he flinches in response. The second lands on his left globe – a bit more forceful. Embarrassingly, Sherlock feels his cock harden with each spank – egad, who knew that he would be the type of person into this – and finds himself losing awareness of how many times his abused bottom had been hit. If it wasn’t for his brother’s firm grip on his person – he would have shamelessly rubbed himself all over Mycroft’s expensive trousers. He couldn’t even imagine having to count out each strike – it sounds like torture.

Just when the stinging is beginning to become intolerable, Mycroft stops.

“You took that well, brother mine.” His brother says calmly – but Sherlock can detect a slight breathless quality to Mycroft’s words – he isn’t the only one affected physically by the spanking. “If only you could see yourself – your bottom is made to be spanked – it is a most flattering shade of red. And what have we here?” Sherlock knows that his brother is looking at his cock – he feels himself flush with humiliation – although his treacherous penis is hardening further and painfully at the proceedings. He desperately wants to rub himself off – but he does have dignity. “My, my, my…” His brother says dramatically, “I hoped for it – Sherlock – you naughty boy – a bit of a pain slut, are we?”

His face reddens further, while his cock stiffens. He wants to snark back along the lines of stating the obvious – but he really cannot talk right now. Wait a minute – did his brother hope that he would react this way to a little spanking? And there is something seriously wrong about his prim and proper brother saying the word ‘slut’ – it shouldn’t sound so bloody erotic.

“Think you deserve a reward, little brother.” Mycroft actually strokes his shirt-clad back in a comforting manner. “Would you like to come?”

“Yes, please.” The syllables fall out of Sherlock’s mouth reflexively. He is appalled at how polite his hindbrain is.

Mycroft emits a pleased noise, “Rub yourself on me, and come – little brother.”

There goes the last of his dignity – Sherlock thinks as he starts grinding himself on the fine wool of his brother’s trousers. He comes in an embarrassingly short amount of time. He slumps bonelessly against Mycroft’s lap and the couch – his first orgasm ever with another person – his brother. Despite the route of humiliation it took to get here – the end result certainly feels as good as some of those drugs he used to take.

A few minutes later, he gets up, essentially sitting in his big brother’s lap – something he hasn’t done since he was a child – and looks at Mycroft, expecting to return the favour, but his brother simply shakes his head.

“I will deal with it later.” Mycroft says.

Sherlock feels oddly disappointed and bereft. He could see the psychology behind such a decision – it would be a privilege to be allowed to make his brother come, rather than an expected duty. However, it doesn’t matter if he could see through the ploy, he knows it is still is going to work.

Fuck it – he is already fantasizing on doing things to his brother… like sucking cock.

God help him… and he is an atheist!

His bum still aches, but he could tolerate sitting on it. One of his brother’s arms snakes around his abdomen and pulls him closer. Sherlock instinctively rests his head against Mycroft’s shoulder.

“That hurt less than expected.” Sherlock observes.

“It was not meant to be punishment, brother.” Mycroft replies. “If you are unfortunate enough to misbehave – you would not be sitting on that arse of yours for days, instead of minutes.”

Sherlock cannot imagine that – although if this arrangement continues – it is inevitable that he will misbehave and be punished. It is as certain as the sun is going to rise tomorrow.

“When can we go to the club?” Sherlock asks, instead of the other innumerable questions that he has in mind.

“We need to build some familiarity between us – let’s say in about two weeks?” Mycroft suggests.

“Fine.” Sherlock says. He asks another question, “Is this a little hobby of yours – BDSM?”

“It has been for a while, little brother. I used to go at least once a week to a club to find a submissive to play with, although I haven’t done so in a few months. I find it relaxing – it is the perfect antidote to a tedious day.” Mycroft answers, surprisingly frank. He then says, “I am going to get you a collar –“

At Sherlock’s alarmed and horrified look, Mycroft quickly adds, “Because almost every sub at the club wears one – and also so you won’t be solicited by any other Dominants while you are there. Therefore, you should get used to wearing one.”

Damn, if he knew he was going to end up spanked and collared and who knew what else – Sherlock would have never taken this bloody case. Although, some parts his mind and anatomy seem to disagree.

“So, tomorrow?” Sherlock asks one last question.

“I will text you, brother.” Mycroft says. “With instructions.”


	2. Collared

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Mycroft play a game...

Shortly before seven in the evening, Sherlock enters his brother’s house, and closes the door behind him. He mounts the stairs. Waiting for him at the top floor is a discreet looking flat box resting on a small and ornate antique table placed against the wall. He hesitates a moment, before resolutely grabbing the box.

_You will take the box located on the table at top of the stairs, go into my bedroom and kneel properly on the rug next to the bed. You will then open the box and put on whatever is in there. MH_

He already knows what is inside the box – but obediently, he walks into Mycroft’s bedroom – a place he has never been in. As he strides past the luxurious king-sized bed – Sherlock wonders how many lovers and/or submissives his brother has brought here in the past. But, he shakes his head – why should he care?

It is, after all, none of his business.

The rug beside the bed is made out of the softest wool – it features an oriental pattern with a dark colour scheme. Some part of his brain thinks that the colouration of the rug complements perfectly with his pale naked body – a thought that he immediately tosses out of his mind. He takes off his shoes and socks, and places a foot on the wool, letting his toes dig into the softness. A large mirror perched on the far side makes Sherlock pause.

What kind of mind games is his brother playing?

He has another choice to make now.

_Clothing is optional. MH_

To strip, or not to strip.

His fingers find themselves unbuttoning his shirt. God – on a deeper level – it seems that his transport knows what it wants – and Sherlock is absolutely terrified. He sees himself in the mirror, divesting himself of his shirt, his belt, his pants and his trousers. Before he is even aware of what else he is doing, he has picked up all his clothes, folded them and stacked them on the seat of a chair nearby. He returns to the rug and sinks down to his knees. Finally, he opens the box, removes the tissue paper and breathes in the aroma of expensive leather. Fuck – a collar – his collar. A dark leather – not quite black – but that matches with the colour of his hair. Simple and elegant in design but embedded with a few practical golden D-rings that could be attached to other things that Sherlock is totally not trying to figure out right now. And a simple tag – bearing an insignia of MH.

Shit – his brother really did not spare any expense for this adventure; Sherlock has no idea how much extra money Mycroft spent to get this collar custom made in a day. This is definitely not a collar made for a short-term relationship. He suppresses thinking about what this all means – the whole situation is going to drive him insane – if he isn’t already. Any sane person would have called an end to such madness since well – yesterday. He can see himself in the mirror, going through this crisis. Even if this whole game is for a case – putting on this collar seems too final – too real. It would have been easier if Mycroft had been here to put it on – but to voluntarily collar himself with his brother’s collar… that is another thing altogether.

It is too symbolic of a gesture – an acknowledgement that his brother owns him.

But anything for a case?

He is going to have to seriously reevaluate that mantra.

Sighing, he lifts the collar to his neck – the leather feels good against his sensitive skin. He buckles it on and rearranges himself – he has no idea what kneeling properly meant so he had out of curiosity looked up the topic before he had left his flat. Surprisingly there had been a vast amount of information on the topic and different styles of doing so – but based on yesterday – Sherlock could partially deduce what Mycroft would prefer. He spreads his thighs apart, exposing his genitalia. He experiments with his upper limbs – leaving them on his thighs, clasping his hands behind his back and even tangling his fingers behind his head.

Minutes later, he hears:

“Mm… brother mine, leave them on your knees.”

Sherlock almost dies of a heart attack, but his arms obediently lower themselves. From the mirror, he could see his brother leaning casually against the doorway of the bedroom – in his shirt and waistcoat – it is clear that Mycroft has been home for quite some time now. Oh, bloody hell – that meant his brother probably had seen everything that happened beforehand.

“Palms up… good boy.”

Damn, he is not some pet! Sherlock thinks – as one part of his mind goes – you are wearing a collar, ergo you are.

Mycroft strides over and looks appreciatively at him. There is no subtlety about it. His big brother then gets down on the rug himself and touches the collar. In the mirror he could see his very naked self –adorned only with the collar around his neck in contrast to his clothed brother. A vain part of him thinks they look good together.

God – he really has fallen deep.

“Gorgeous.” Mycroft whispers in his ear.

Sherlock flushes at the compliment. It is not a secret that he likes to be praised.

“Let’s play a game, little brother.” Mycroft says casually, as he lets his hand trail slowly from the collar, down Sherlock’s straight spine and to his bum.

He shivers at the touch.

“A game of deductions.” His brother adds. “But some questions first – do you trust me?”

Sherlock thinks grimly – he is wearing Mycroft’s collar – that implies some sort of trust. It is far too late to question that. “Yes, brother.”

“The second question – do you mind if I play with this lovely little hole of yours?” Mycroft gently massages the delicate skin surrounding that virginal orifice. It feels startling good.

Is his brother thinking about fucking him? Sherlock finds himself mentally freaking out inside.

The ultimate incestuous taboo...

“You are not ready for that.” Mycroft says, knowingly. “It’s okay to say no if you don’t want it. I understand.”

Well… he had cleaned out his arse according to the instructions his brother had given him earlier – it would be a waste… “Fine.” He says.

“It wouldn’t change our plans if you said no. It would only simply make things – more interesting.” Mycroft explains as he gets Sherlock to roll on his front.

It is a relief to change position – who bloody knew that kneeling could make your body start to ache?

His brother’s fingers continue to teasingly rub against the periphery of his hole, before he hears the snick of a bottle of lubricant being opened and a slick finger carefully breaches his virgin hole. It is an odd sensation – having something enter a space where things normally go out. The finger massages the walls of his anal canal, before he feels the penetration of a second finger stretch him out further. It burns a little when Mycroft’s fingers scissor him, although he gasps in pleasure when his brother’s fingers nudge a specific spot – prostate, his brain supplies. “More!” Sherlock demands – even though some part of his brain warns of punishment for such behaviour.

But his brother simply chuckles, and repeats what Sherlock wants, several times. Mycroft adds, “I wouldn’t normally tolerate that, but I want you to enjoy this – little brother.”

“Mm…” Sherlock moans, as his brother rubs at that perfect spot again.

He sighs in disappointment when he feels his brother’s fingers retreat, but something else – hard and unyielding – penetrates him with slow force. “Plug?” Sherlock asks.

“Vibrator – brother mine.” Mycroft replies. “Want to see how clever you are, distracted and debauched.”

The toy is not large and fits without too much difficulty into him.

I can do this – Sherlock thinks. But then Mycroft switches on the vibrator and he moans – loudly.

Or not… Sherlock sighs to himself, while externally he is wriggling with unfamiliar pleasure.

“That is the lowest setting.” Mycroft informs, before shutting it off. “I am going to blindfold you, brother – then turn on the vibrator, and I am going to take some objects and run them against your skin. You are going to tell me what they are – do you understand, brother mine?”

“Yes, Mycroft, I understand.” Sherlock responds. He then adds, “Do I get a reward for getting them all right?”

“Cocky, little brother.” Mycroft exclaims with a hint of admonishment. “If you get them all right – you can have a reward – but if you get even one wrong – I have a punishment for you.”

“What is the reward?” Sherlock asks – it seems to be designed not in his favour.

“Anything.” Mycroft says, “You name it.”

In that case, he has to win. “How many objects?”

“Four.” Mycroft responds.

Sherlock feels the softness of the blindfold being tied around his head, immersing him into darkness; considering that his vision is gone, he shuts his eyes instead – determined to use his other senses. His brother repositions him – so that he is on his hands and knees.

“Try not to move, brother mine. It is very important.” Mycroft says, before switching on the vibrator.

He groans, as the toy vibrates against that sensitive spot, and he feels something cold touch against his chest – cold and wet. Sherlock flinches when it brushes against his nipple, and he yelps, “Ice cube.”

The next item feels familiar as it is run down against his back in smooth strokes. Compounded with the vibrations in his bum, it is pushing him lightly towards orgasm – which he finds very distracting. He has a hard time finding the name for the object, until a startling loud whack on his back forces his brain to recall it – “Riding crop.” He answers after what it feels like an eternity.

“Good boy.” His brother sounds pleased.

The next object is cold, hard, metallic and incredibly sharp. Oh god – is his brother seriously running a knife down his back? The vibrations are really beginning to drive him nuts too – he is beginning to feel the need to come – but he knows – even with all his inexperience – that it is not enough. But he doesn’t dare move. The object is now grazing against his arm, towards his shoulder and good god – against his neck. And somehow – he could feel his cock stiffen further when the blade kisses his carotid.

Fuck, is he messed up or what?

“A knife?” He asks breathlessly, instead of answering.

“Is that your final answer, brother?” Mycroft has amusement in his tone.

“Yes,” He pants. “God, brother, I want to come.” He whines.

“Sh…” Mycroft strokes his back soothingly, “Soon – one more.”

Something soft tickles against his skin – it lightly skims against his neck. It is getting extremely hard to concentrate – Sherlock is beginning to feel himself sweat and the need to rub his painfully hard cock against something – but unfortunately there is nothing to rub against except for the air in his position.

“Concentrate, little brother.” Mycroft says sternly. “You can come after, I promise.”

The object brushes against his wrists, his fingers, his inner thighs and his belly. It is soft and feathery – oh. “A feather.” He gasps.

“Well done.” Mycroft praises, and switches off the vibrator – causing Sherlock to slump down onto the rug in a mixture of neediness and relief.

His brother removes the vibrator from his canal, leaving him with an unexpected feeling of emptiness.

Surely, he’s won this – it is simple enough – right?

When the blindfold is lightly pulled off, Sherlock wants to go cry in frustration. It was not a knife that his brother had used – it had been a metal ruler. But it had felt so sharp against his skin!

He feels Mycroft embrace him – pulling him into his lap. He buries his face against his brother’s shoulder.

“You know, brother mine, if you put that metal ruler in the freezer overnight – it will feel similar to a knife.” Mycroft reveals his secret. “I wouldn’t use a knife in this situation – not with the vibrator in you. It is too risky. Never would I hurt you unless if it’s something we both want.”

“My punishment?” Sherlock asks, dejectedly.

“Later.” Mycroft says, “Do you still want to come?”

Sherlock can only nod, as Mycroft reaches for his cock and strokes it with a practiced motion. When Sherlock feels himself about to ejaculate, Mycroft orders, “Come for me, little brother.”, and he shoots his load all over his brother’s clothes.

.

.

Later, Sherlock is lying against his brother downstairs – Mycroft is watching a movie – Spirited Away – out of all possible things. He has the urge to go use the bathroom, so he gets up – only to be pulled back firmly down the couch.

“Just where do you think you are going?” Mycroft asks sternly.

Shocked, Sherlock replies, “The toilet, brother.”

“Not without my permission.” Mycroft states firmly, “You can go later – like after the movie.”

“Mycroft…” Sherlock complains; he even does the squirmy little dance of a person with a full bladder. “I really have to go.”

“Then go.” Mycroft says nonchalantly.

Sherlock tries another escape attempt, only to be dragged back a second time – he is beginning to realize what this game is all about.

“Brother – you are severely trying my patience.” Mycroft’s tone is hard. “Just remember whose collar you currently wear around your neck.”

“Mycroft…” Sherlock is absolutely alarmed. “You can’t mean that –“

“That is your punishment, little brother.” Mycroft smiles wryly. “And for disrupting my movie, I want you across my lap – like yesterday.” At Sherlock’s inertia, Mycroft orders in the tone of the British government, leaving no room for argument. “Now.”

Sherlock hastily unbuckles his belt and pulls down his pants and trousers, before stumbling towards his brother and draping himself over Mycroft’s lap. He spreads his thighs apart, evidently no longer shy to display his private parts to his brother – he is too busy being embarrassed over this new situation.

“That’s more like it.” Mycroft’s hand caresses his bum, rubbing teasingly at his hole, which was still wet with lubricant. “Feel free to answer nature’s call anytime.”

Sherlock flushes a deeper shade of red. His rebellious cock is hardening again. God – it is becoming very clear that he gets off on humiliation too – how depraved could he possibly get? He also realizes that Mycroft has covered the couch with an old towel – it is evident that everything that has happened today had been planned in advance.

“Maybe you need an incentive…” Mycroft strokes his bottom, before moving downwards to fondle his exposed scrotum and cock. “Five spanks for every minute you spend dithering about whether to piss or not. In this case, I owe you ten already.”

It is amazing how threats work. The piss comes out – dangerously close to Mycroft’s pajama bottoms – Sherlock had already gotten cum all over his brother’s trousers earlier.

Simultaneously, Sherlock feels an incredible sense of relief and humiliation.

And oddly enough, this situation feels incredibly intimate.

“Good boy.” Mycroft releases his grip on Sherlock’s waist to caress his scalp. His brother than readjusts Sherlock’s body, so that his arse is optimally displayed. “You are going to count to ten. And if you miscount – we are starting from the beginning again – understand, brother?”

Sherlock nods, but Mycroft reprimands, “If I ask you a verbal question, I expect a verbal response.”

“Yes, Mycroft.” Sherlock says, just as his brother lands the first blow. “One.” Sherlock dutifully counts.

He counts, as each strike is rained down. He tries to ignore the growing warmth in his loins; his prick is feeling discomfort – it is painfully hard and trapped mercilessly against his brother’s thigh. “Eight.” He gasps when a particularly hard blow lands on his left cheek. The spanks land far more painfully than yesterday. “Nine.” He counts – the agony in his bum is intolerable; he knows he can't afford to fail, and he sobs out “Ten.” when the final blow lands. Much to his horror, he has actually managed to break down and cry – the end result of everything that has happened this evening.

Mycroft actually lies down on the couch to do what he could only describe as to cuddling; letting him cry into his pajama top – and also accurately deducing that his arse is not fit for sitting on any surface anytime in the near future. His brother strokes his back and hair – places that he enjoys being touched non-sexually – in a manner that is both soothing and surprisingly affectionate.

And when he finally stops crying – his mind is incredibly clear – he feels that he could solve any problem thrown at him. He no longer has the need to come – his own tears had been a turn-off in that regard.

“Tomorrow?” Sherlock asks.

“We will have to skip the next two to three days, brother.” Mycroft sighs, “Off to Madrid to deal with another EU-UK disaster.” At Sherlock’s poorly hidden disappointed look, Mycroft adds with a small smile, “I can give you some homework – if that is what you want – brother.”

Shit, he probably has Stockholm's syndrome or something... Mycroft had made him cry, and some masochistic part of him craves more.

And this is only day two...

Fuck, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading :)  
> Also, if you have any play suggestions - feel free to shoot a comment or something :P  
> If it is in me to make it happen - I will.


	3. Homework

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Sherlock does his homework and endures some pain...

Sherlock carefully opens a cream-coloured envelope and pulls out a stack of rectangular strips cut from thick, expensive paper. On the first strip, writ in his brother’s old-fashioned calligraphy in a luxurious dark ink are the following words:

_Brother – read and follow all directions on the card before turning to the next one. MH_

He removes the first strip and reads the second:

_Fetch the items under the bed._

He crawls over to Mycroft’s bed, and finds a long rectangular box, along with the smaller box that contains his collar. Sherlock pulls them both out and opens them. Without much hesitation – unlike the day before – he puts on the collar, before surveying the contents of the unfamiliar box.

Oh god. He reacts – there is a collection of silicone anal plugs inside – from small to how-the-fuck-can-that-possibly-fit inside-anyone’s-arse. The toys are clearly new – Mycroft must have bought them recently – Sherlock deduces.

He flips to the third strip.

 _Pick a plug that would fit comfortably in your arse. Insert it. Be sure to use a lot of lubricant. The purpose today is to get you used to having something up there, brother mine._  

He first pulls out a plug that would approximate the girth of Mycroft’s cock – he cannot lie to himself anymore  – ever since his brother had introduced him to anal play the day before, he had started fantasizing about being fucked by Mycroft when he had returned back to Baker Street. In fact – he had wanked over the thought before going to bed. His selected plug is intimidatingly large – although it is far from the thickest plug in the collection. He puts it back and settles for the third smallest toy – it is wider than the vibrator that Mycroft had used yesterday. He finds some lubricant, coats two fingers with it, and prepares his hole for the plug – scissoring as Mycroft had done for him previously. Then, he uses a generous amount of lube on the toy, before carefully sliding it in. If only Mycroft was here to do this for him – he thinks wistfully – it would be more enjoyable – and probably more sadistic. He imagines that the plug is his brother’s cock, spearing him wide open. The unfamiliar stretch burns – Sherlock has to stop and take a break – before finally getting the toy completely in. Out of curiosity, he pulls at the flared base, and simulates a thrust or two – he groans when the toy brushes against that special spot. His bum feels full – he couldn’t possibly imagine having something larger – it would probably split hm in half! But he knows that he wants to work his way up to the plug that approximates Mycroft’s size – and then convince his brother to fuck him or earn the privilege to be fucked.

And, since his brother had purchased the bigger toys – oh fuck – is Mycroft interested in fisting him?

The thought paralyzes him for a good minute or so. And god – all these plans would take a lot longer than the timeline that Mycroft had initially proposed to break into the office.

All of the evidence is pointing to the fact that his brother intends to keep him afterwards.

He almost faints at the thought.

Shit – he really has been out of his depth and slow on the uptake – too busy being distracted by all of these novel experiences. Apparently, big brother has an ulterior motive for helping him with the case – and he is sure that there are other non-incestuous routes that Mycroft could have pursued to help him obtain access to that private office. But, why would big brother want to keep him? He certainly can’t be a pet that Mycroft could take out publicly.

And the other question is – does he even want to be kept?

Considering that this problem is something he has time to reflect upon, Sherlock flips to the fourth strip.

_I get the impression, little brother, that you don’t masturbate often. And, if you did – you would go straight to the main event, judging by how you neglect what you call your transport. This will change. I want you to get to get acquainted with your body. I want you to explore yourself. Run your fingers down your skin, caress your inner thighs – for example. Touch those exquisite and tight little pink nipples of yours – pinch them, pull them and twist them – you might enjoy it – considering your pain slut tendencies. Do not under any circumstance touch your cock. Feel free to fantasize while doing so. Flip this over when you feel close to orgasm._

Well, that’s certainly true – Sherlock does not wank often – and if he does, he often thinks of it as routine transport maintenance. Damn, his brother knows him too well. He kneels in front of the mirror – he still cannot get used to sight of himself naked – simply adorned by Mycroft’s collar.

He certainly does not look like himself.

God.

He imagines that his brother is lounging on the bed, watching him. Carefully, he runs his fingers along his clavicles, down his sternum and down his well-defined abdominis rectus. He gets on all fours, as if presenting a view of his plugged bottom to the imaginary Mycroft and uses his digits to trace his stretched rim – he shivers when he works a finger between the toy and the inner wall of his anus – further stretching himself. Dropping his fingers to his thighs, he caresses the inner skin, before moving up to play with his scrotum and rub against his perineum – a slow burn of arousal thrums within him. His fingers travel upwards – his finger pads lightly brush against his nipples, which harden under the touch. He captures the buds betwixt two of his fingers and pinches them – slowly increasing the pressure. His fingers pull and twist at the tender flesh and he gasps at the pain while his cock fills out further.

Fuck – he really is a pain slut.

He tugs sharply his nipples, pulling them further away from his breast and he moans, before releasing them – leaving them with a pleasurable throbbing ache. Experimentally, he pinches the other sensitive areas of his body – the skin of his inner thighs and even the delicate flesh of his scrotum – deliberately inflicting pain.

It bloody hurts, but it feels good.

Damn, he might never need the drugs again – if this is what his brother could provide.

He flips to the next strip.

 _Come for me, little brother – you may touch your cock now_.

His right hand automatically goes for his cock, and his left strokes and squeezes at his ballsack – it does not take long at all for the orgasm to build, and as he ejaculates – he whispers “Mycroft.”.

He collapses against the carpet, into his sticky mess, completely sated. He weakly flips to the last card.

_I want you, brother mine, to write about everything that you have fantasized, thought of and felt during this entire experience. Omit nothing. Nor fret about what you have written. When you are done, lock it in the box that I have in my study._

Fuck. No wonder his brother had written out his instructions like this. Sherlock would have kept a tight rein on his thoughts if he had read the whole thing in one go. Bollocks. And he knows that his brother will figure out if he leaves anything important out – especially if they have a physical relationship like this now.

His phone vibrates on the nightstand.

_Exquisite, brother mine. MH_

Oh, of course his brother has a camera in the room. In fact, Sherlock can see where it is located from his current vantage point, right now.

God, sex has rotted his brain…

_Only I have access to the camera feed. I will destroy the evidence now, even though it is a shame to do so. MH_

_Don’t worry about the carpet – my housekeeper will deal with it tomorrow. MH_

_I won’t be back tomorrow, but your assignment is to come back and repeat what you did today if you aren’t out on a case. The only difference is that you will not come – save that for my return. MH_

_In fact, starting now, you are not allowed to come until I say so, brother mine. MH_

His brother is a cruel man.

_Put everything back where you found them. I look forward to reading what you wrote. And I am sure you can survive not coming for two days – you have done so for much longer. MH_

Not like this… His brother is essentially asking him to edge himself to the cusp of orgasm tomorrow – and leave it. And, he did not consider himself a sexual being until two days ago! He checks the time – fuck – he better start working on the writing so he could go home before John comes back from whatever horrid date he is on today. The less questions he gets asked about his newfound activities, the better.

The plug within his arse shifts pleasantly when he starts walking towards Mycroft’s study – fuck – he had completely forgotten all about it.

Oh well, he will remove it and clean it before he leaves his brother’s house.

.

.

For the third day in a row, Sherlock fetches his collar and an anal plug from beneath Mycroft’s bed. Instead of the toy he had used during the past two days, he picks one that is a size larger. He shuffles on his knees to where Mycroft is sitting cross-legged on the carpet and offers both items to his brother – who takes them.

“I think, brother mine, for the sake of appearances at the club – you should refer to me as ‘sir’.” Mycroft says, after examining the plug that Sherlock had brought him.

Sherlock nods, but remembering a reprimand from several days ago, he replies, “Yes… sir.”

“Otherwise, I would not insist that from you.” Mycroft makes a slight face. “Too many insignificant submissives have used that title in the past – and it has rather lost its significance for me.”

Does his brother consider him a ‘significant’ submissive? Sherlock finds himself worrying about the things he had written to Mycroft in the last two days – especially involving their relationship after the case.

“What about Master?” Sherlock finds himself asking – much to his surprise.

Mycroft shakes his head. “Brother, we have not negotiated anything between ourselves besides a few simple rules. You wear my collar, but I do not own you.” His brother then smiles fondly at him, and ruffles his hair, “You have been a very good boy while I was away… hm?”

Sherlock finds himself blushing and preening under Mycroft’s praise.

It had been a difficult two days.

His brother grabs a fistful of Sherlock’s hair and pulls him closer. It hurts – in a pleasant way – being dragged like this. “It was difficult was it not?”

“Very much, sir.” Sherlock replies, finding himself nuzzling his head against Mycroft’s chest, suddenly desiring the comfort of touch. His brother wraps an arm around him, somehow deducing what he wanted.

“Tell me about all the times you almost came.” Mycroft orders gently.

“Oh god. After you gave me those instructions – I walked to your study to find a writing implement and some paper – but I forgot to take out the plug. When I was walking, the plug kept moving. I was horny after I found everything – and desperate when I penned the last sentence and deposited the paper into your box. When I went to go put the toy and my collar away in your room, I started wanking… but I came to my senses and stopped. And then you texted.” Sherlock lets the story stream out of his mouth.

The text had been: _Good boy. MH_

“I wanted to see if you would actually disobey me within the first hour – especially in front of my own camera.” His brother replies with a slight grin.

“I was horny all the next day. I was tempted to end the game right there, and just come… but it felt like losing. And…” Sherlock trails off, not sure if he wanted to tell his brother his newfound revelation.

“And what, brother mine?” Mycroft tenderly caresses Sherlock’s back and face with a hand. “Tell me.”

“Some part of me didn’t want to disappoint you.” The words slip out of his mouth.

“You wouldn’t have disappointed me.” Mycroft replies with utmost seriousness, “Many experienced submissives have been tempted by less. And I would have enjoyed punishing you. A lesson in delayed gratification is one that takes time to learn. Now give me the number of times you had almost came without my permission between the time my instructions were given and now – excluding the time when you were carrying out your assignment from yesterday.”

“Seven.” Sherlock says. He quickly amends, “Seven, sir.”

“Kneel for me.” Mycroft suddenly orders .

As he sinks to his knees with his arms resting on his thighs, his brother stands up with the collar in his hands. Mycroft carefully and reverently places the collar around his neck. Sherlock realizes that this is the first time his brother had done this for him – and that he could see from the mirror that this action means quite a bit to Mycroft from a certain glint in his eyes.

“Present your lovely arse to me, brother.”

Sherlock gets down on all fours and elevates his bum. A lubricated finger penetrates his arsehole, followed by another. His brother patiently works him open, before adding a third finger. It feels rather business-like compared to the first time Mycroft had done this for him.

“This is bigger than the plug you used during the last two days.” Mycroft states. “Are you sure you want this one? There are some other things I plan to do to you, today.”

“I want it, sir.” Sherlock says with conviction as his brother playfully slaps his bum.

“Eager little slut.” Mycroft responds in a pleased manner as he presses the toy against his hole.

Sherlock flushes at the dirty words which his brother delivers as if they were a compliment. The plug sinks slowly into his hole, stretching him out wide. When there is resistance and discomfort, Mycroft fondles with his balls, cock and perineum as a distraction. It takes several minutes before the toy is seated within him, and he moans when his brother massages the sensitized rim.

“For some submissives, what I am going to do to you now would be a punishment. But for special individuals like you – I think this would be more of a reward. Get back on your knees, brother.” Mycroft orders cryptically.

Sherlock obeys as his brother tosses him a bag made out of some velvety fabric.

“Since you almost came seven times over the last few days – why don’t you count out fourteen of the implements in the bag and give them to me.”

“Yes, sir.” Sherlock opens the bag to find clothespins – painted the same shade of aubergine as his favourite shirt. He shivers – he thinks he knows what Mycroft is going to use them for. And it certainly isn’t for hanging up clothing. He pours them all out of the bag and dutifully counts out fourteen, before putting everything else back into the bag.

“Thank you, brother.” Mycroft puts his two hands on the lateral sides of Sherlock’s abdomen and pulls him up, readjusting his position. His knees are spread wider and his brother makes a few other minute adjustments. Sherlock foresees that this position would not be easy to hold for a long period of time.

“Clasp your hands behind your back.” Mycroft gives another order.

Sherlock obeys, and Mycroft has pulled out a riding crop from somewhere. The tress of the crop brushes lightly against the sensitive skin of his ribcage. Just as he is enjoying the sensation, his brother suddenly slaps the crop against his bum. He gasps in surprise before his brother smacks his other cheek. The tress is then drawn back up his ribs and is then brushed against both of his nipples in turn. Arousal simmers in his loins while his brother alternates between caressing him and hitting him with the crop. Finally, his brother uses the tress to lift up his chin and asks. “Safe word?”

“Redbeard.” Sherlock replies. “Sir.”

“Good.” Mycroft gets on his own knees and picks up several of the clothespins from the pile.

There isn’t much extraneous flesh on Sherlock’s bones, but his brother manages to pinch some flesh between his fingers and apply a clothespin on the skin over his ribcage in line with his armpit, or rather aligned with the axillary line. It pinches, but the pain is not that bad. Three more clothespins are added below the first, in a line, intensifying the sensation. Mycroft applies four more to the opposite side and one on both sides of his belly.

It is starting to get painful – but there is an undercurrent of pleasure that goes along with it.

“Deduce where these will go, little brother.” Mycroft holds out the last four.

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but his brother bends down and caresses his scrotum and cock, before attaching two of the pins to his sack – from the mirror he sees himself visibly wince. The last two go on his nipples – causing a wavering aching type of pain on top of everything else.

“How are you feeling?” Mycroft asks, after he picks up his crop from the bed.

“Excellent, sir.” Sherlock murmurs – trying to not let the sensations overwhelm him.

Mycroft smiles at him, draws some lines on Sherlock’s torso with the crop’s tress and asks again, “How are you really feeling, brother mine?”

“It hurts.” Sherlock admits, “But, it kind of feels good at the same time. Maybe a four to three ratio? Four is pain, three is pleasure?”

“Let me help you with that, little brother.” Mycroft gets down to his knees again, and strokes Sherlock’s cock a few times before closing his lips around the prick.

Sherlock moans loudly – his brother is giving him the first blowjob ever of his life. And it feels pretty fucking good – the pain seems to intensify the sensations of his brother’s licking and sucking of his cock. Mycroft’s fingers play with his scrotum and massage at his perineum, further causing the build in pleasure. He is beginning to feel like he is floating. All too soon, his brother releases Sherlock’s cock, and says seriously, “I think it is time to take these off, little brother. I am going to warn you in advance – removing them is going to be more intense than putting them on.”

Sherlock nods – too far awash in sensation to answer verbally. He cries out when his brother uses the crop to smack the first four pins that his brother had affixed to the right side off in rapid succession. The agony is unexpectedly incredible – Sherlock wants to crawl in a hole and assume a fetal position.

“The left side, brother.” Mycroft warns before using the crop to whack the four clothespins on the left side off.

He moans in pain, just as his brother flicks the two pins on his tummy off.

“The scrotum.” Mycroft states impassively, as Sherlock finds himself in a drunken state, high on whatever chemicals that had been released due to the pain. He hardly notices his brother knocking the pins off his ballsack, and his nipples. Mycroft catches him when he collapses a few moments later.

When Sherlock regains awareness, he is cradled carefully against his brother’s body. Mycroft watches him with some concern. Sherlock blinks – he feels dazed and parts of him ache – but it is a good pleasurable ache.

“What was that?” Sherlock asks.

“That, brother, is what we call subspace.” Mycroft explains. “Or more specifically, physiological subspace – the type that can happen when you play with pain. Normally, I would stop if I notice someone drop into that, but those pins really shouldn’t be kept longer on your person. Safe words become pretty useless when someone goes into that state.”

“I didn’t get to come.” Sherlock notices, suddenly feeling bereft.

“I owe you an orgasm, brother. You can choose the manner of how you want to come.” Mycroft replies. He also adds, “And a reward.”

“Any manner?” Sherlock looks at Mycroft for clarification – for once he knows exactly what he wants.

Mycroft visibly swallows, and Sherlock knows that his brother already has figured out what he plans to ask for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading <3 and your support!


	4. Corrupted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets his reward(s).

“Undo my belt and my trousers, brother mine.”

Sherlock looks up from his kneeling position – his hands reach up to unbuckle Mycroft’s belt, undo a button and pull down a zipper.

“Pull them down.”

He tugs down his brother’s trousers and pants slowly – and gradually gets an eyeful of Mycroft’s cock – the star of the fantasies he had been having for the last two days. His mouth waters – as he had deduced – his brother is impressively endowed in terms of both length and girth.

He sighs when one of Mycroft’s fingers reach down to trace his lips.

“I should get you a spider gag, little brother – you would look gorgeous with your mouth stretched open – drooling for me to fuck your face.”

What an image – Sherlock shudders.

“Mm… you like that?” Mycroft actually inserts his index and middle fingers into Sherlock’s mouth, inducing him to suck on them. “How delightfully naughty!” His brother pulls his saliva-coated digits out of his mouth. “Touch my cock.”

With some hesitation, Sherlock reaches for Mycroft’s cock. He curls his fingers around it, and cautiously strokes with some pressure. His brother’s prick becomes increasingly erect under his touch.

“Suck.” Mycroft orders.

And Sherlock does – he places his mouth over his brother’s glans. He sucks and licks – his inexperienced mouth clumsily getting slobber all over the place. The butt plug – Mycroft had not removed the toy earlier – shifts in his enthusiasm and rubs pleasantly against certain spots, reawakening his arousal. He takes more of his brother into his mouth, using his hands to cover the portion of Mycroft’s cock that is not in his oral cavity. He feels his brother’s hand slide into his hair, pulling at the strands in a delicious manner – not helping at all with the warmth building in his loins.

He gags when the cock hits the back of his throat.

“Relax, brother mine – and breathe through your nose if you want to take it further.” Mycroft says while pulling at his hair, “I certainly don’t expect you take it all on your first attempt. It takes training.”

Sherlock prides himself on having mastery over his transport – although clearly these days his transport is busy being educated on how to adapt to some new situations. He knows that if he wants to deep throat his brother, he would have to desensitize his gag reflex. He directs the tip of Mycroft’s prick slowly towards the back of his throat – and despite the discomfort – he keeps his brother’s cock there for as long as he could before letting it slip out.

“Good.” Mycroft’s breathing has changed – the only other sign aside from his hard phallus which indicates that his brother is affected by Sherlock’s first blowjob. “This is your reward – Sherlock – I really don’t expect –“

His brother groans, when Sherlock attempts to swallow around the cock – again he takes as much of Mycroft’s prick into his mouth – this time managing to get the phallus deeper down than his previous tries, before being forced to pull away.

God – this whole process is making him ache with need as well – but he doesn’t dare think about coming. His brother had promised him exactly one orgasm – and this is not the way he had asked to come.

Suddenly, his brother pulls at his hair and attempts to pull out, but Sherlock keeps his hold onto Mycroft’s cock, and suddenly his mouth is flooded with a creamy and thick fluid – it causes him to retch – more due to the unexpectedness of it all rather than the taste and texture of his brother’s cum. He swallows some and the rest dribbles out of his mouth. His brother takes a few moments to recover and examine him. Sherlock can see his side profile in the mirror – and his hair is a mess, and there is saliva and cum all over the lower portion of his face.

And his own cock is hard and aching; the result of denial over the course of two long days.

“Do you want to come, brother mine?” Mycroft asks knowingly.

Sherlock takes a deep breath and counts to ten. “Not now, sir.” He says – despite his body desperately crying for it. His tongue slips out and attempts to lick the mess on his lower jaw.

“Mm…” Mycroft looks thoughtful, “You do know it’s going to be awhile before I can get it up again, brother.”

“I know.” Sherlock says while internally screaming.

“I do appreciate a good cum slut, brother.” Mycroft moves to sit on the mattress while completely pulling off his trousers and pants.

Sherlock gets up and lies down beside his brother on the bed. “What else do you appreciate in a submissive?”

“Do you want to talk about this now?” Mycroft asks while returning his hand back into Sherlock’s scalp, this time trying to bring some order back to the mess.

“You know how I feel about everything.” Sherlock says – thinking about everything he has written. He had explicitly written in his second paper that he had fantasized about being owned by Mycroft. “I don’t know what you want out of such an arrangement, brother.”

Mycroft smiles – shark-like. “You will never be the same again, brother.”

“I think it’s already too late.” Sherlock rests his head against his brother’s thigh.

“If you think you’ve already reached the depths of depravity – think again. I will ruin you – completely and utterly.” Mycroft says in a warning tone. “There is a big difference in what it means to be _mine_ and what we have now.”

The words send chills down Sherlock’s spine; his brother means every syllable. He knows logically that he should turn tail and flee now – but he had never been one for self-preservation.

Sherlock says knowingly, “If you wanted me not to be where I am lying down currently – you would have never introduced this to me, big brother.” 

“I couldn’t resist.” Mycroft admits. “I dream of corrupting you – little brother. Such a cerebral creature you are – I will turn you into a slave – not necessarily to me – but to your own hedonistic desires.” His brother then looks at him with surprising tenderness. “I adore you as well – if you insist on going through what you think you want – you will be a well-loved pet.” Mycroft bends down to kiss his cheek. “If you become mine – Sherlock – I promise I will love you, cherish you –“ His brother hugs him. “Hurt you.” Sherlock gasps in agony when Mycroft’s fingers cruelly pull and twist at his already aching nipples. His eyes tear at the pain his brother inflicts. Mycroft continues talking while Sherlock whimpers, partially in pleasure. “Humiliate you, ruin you – the list goes on and on, brother mine. Of course, you can safe word out of things – I would be unhappier with you if you didn’t and knew that you should have. But you will have to promise to me that you will try your best – because it’s not easy to be a submissive as you may have realized over the last few days.”

“Would I be your only submissive?” Sherlock asks, knowing that a good number of Dominants have more than one sub. He doesn’t think he could bear to share Mycroft with anyone else if this should happen.

“Yes.” Mycroft replies, “However, I might participate in the training of another submissive from time to time though – as a favour.”

“Will we actually have a play contract?” Sherlock is trying to think of all the things he had learned over the internet – trying to get a better understanding on how this all worked.

“Yes. I would refuse otherwise.” His brother replies. “And don’t make any decisions now – we will play as we are, and you can tell me what your choice is after you have retrieved whatever it is that you need from that club. And you were very smart – little brother – I did only promise you one orgasm today. And I think I can provide it to you now – in the manner that you desire. Present your arse.”

Sherlock eagerly scrambles from his current position at the side of the bed to a position on his knees and elbows at the centre of the king-sized bed. He lets out a cry of protest when his brother slaps his arse – causing the plug inside to shift. Mycroft tugs at the flared base of the plug, and pulls it out, before ramming it back into his hole – Sherlock yelps, but proceeds to moan with pleasure when his brother repeats the action – this time the plug strokes at his prostate in just the right way. Mycroft continues to fuck him with the plug and slows the pace down so that he could work a finger into Sherlock’s already filled hole.

“Mycroft…” Sherlock whines.

“Tell me what you want, brother.” Mycroft replies, while still moving the toy slowly in and out along with his inserted finger.

“Please fuck me… with your cock.” Sherlock begs – he feels absolutely desperate. He is slowly beginning to understand what his brother means by being a slave to his own hedonistic desires. All he seriously wants is to come – preferably with Mycroft’s cock in his arse – and he doesn’t really care about anything else.

“You beg so prettily.” Mycroft’s voice is a caress. “Who am I to deny you what you are owed?

The plug is finally pulled out, but before Sherlock could lament at the emptiness, his brother thrusts into him. Mycroft’s cock is still a bit thicker than the plug that Sherlock had been wearing for the last hour or so; it burns – but in a way that brings him closer to the precipice. He doesn’t even recognize the sounds coming from his larynx as his brother continues to fuck him – every other stroke rubs him just perfectly and before he knows it – his brother has reached for his cock and frigs it the way Sherlock prefers, and he finally comes – the load spilling out onto the bedsheets. He collapses, rendered totally useless by the intensity of his orgasm, while Mycroft thrusts into him a few more times before pulling out of Sherlock’s well-used hole. His brother ejaculates – shooting the cum all over Sherlock’s lower back and arse.

“When you are feeling up to it, brother –“ Mycroft starts massaging his own ejaculate deeply into the skin of Sherlock’s bum which pushes some of the cum into the anus as well. “Kindly lick your own mess off my bedsheets – please and thank you.”

Sherlock is too sated to think about what he is doing. As a result, he doesn’t hesitate to lower his head and lick at the sizable damp spot on Mycroft’s sheets – using whatever neurons he had left firing to compare the taste between his and his brother’s ejaculate.

He likes Mycroft’s better – it is sweeter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading :)


	5. Denied

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Sherlock's mouth lands him in trouble...

Sherlock is nakedly kneeling in the living room, at the foot of the plush armchair that his brother favours. His knees rest on a well-worn blue cushion with tassels; it is the first physical piece of evidence that he has seen which proves that Mycroft had invited other submissives to play at his house previously. His brother had left the room as soon as Sherlock had knelt without another word.

He is probably fucked.

He hasn’t seen his brother in several days – Lestrade had a relatively simple case with a few interesting points while Mycroft had an election in some foreign country that had to be closely monitored and manipulated with – so they hadn’t been able to meet up. His brother had given him more homework in the interim – similar to the assignments he had been given previously. He would masturbate himself to the point of orgasm with an anal plug up his arse – Anthea had delivered a discreet box containing the toys and instructions to him while John had been at work with a suspicious smirk and wink and Sherlock isn’t sure if he could ever look at Mycroft’s loyal PA the same way again – and stop on two separate occasions each day. At the end of each session, Sherlock would send a text to Mycroft:

_May I come, sir? SH_

And his brother would reply – predictably and frustratingly:

_No, you may not. MH_

His brother is truly a sadist. Sherlock spent the days learning how to function with a perpetually some degree of erect cock and an ache for someone – namely Mycroft – to put him out of his misery. Cold showers could only do so much. Flashes of the naughty things Mycroft and he had done would revisit his brain throughout the course of the day – which would interrupt whatever he was doing – and even John had noticed his distracted state of mind. Even innocent words, as long as they had a remote sexual connotation, would derail his train of thoughts especially over the last two days.

And of course, his brother had visited him at Baker Street today, while John had been present with a legitimate case and with a Mr. Important in tow… Panicked and completely caught off-guard, he had reverted to his old habits – some of his nastiest cake insults and some untactful deductions about said Mr. Important had left his bratty mouth. Mycroft had given him a most disappointed look before leaving while doing some delicate damage control. At the end, John had given him a good lecture on manners – and told him to go apologize to his brother in person – which overlapped with his brother’s own orders sent an hour later:

_My house, 7 PM. Do be punctual. MH_

So, he is here now. Kneeling. Naked. Head bowed. Worry and shame had dampened his arousal. He feels even more naked than usual – Mycroft had not given him his collar, nor something for his bottom. In fact, the box containing his collar sits on an accent table near the armchair. Would his brother want to give up on this altogether?

He doesn’t know what to feel about that. Now that he has had a taste – Sherlock has the peculiar feeling that he would keep on craving these experiences like the addict he knows he is. And he had enjoyed sucking and of course being fucked by Mycroft’s cock. Where else is he going to find a Dominant that could keep up with him?

But then, his brother had said he loved him – the last time they were together. Sentiment. From the man known as the Iceman. Sherlock hangs his head lower – he regrets his previous behaviour and an apology seems inadequate.

Fuck, he wants his collar – it would be a sign that all would be fine.

He isn’t sure how long he has been kneeling here – but he is starting to feel sore. The sound of footsteps approaches him. His brother lowers himself back down on to the seat of the armchair and Sherlock feels fingers tug painfully at his hair, forcing him to look up at Mycroft.

“What should I ever do with you, brother?” Mycroft muses. His brother does not seem mad. “Forever a brat… I suppose. I was going to let you cum today – but I don’t think you deserve to. What do you think, pet?”

Sherlock swallows; there is some relief in his two syllables. “No, sir.”

“No, what?” Mycroft asks for clarification.

He flushes slightly, “No, I do not deserve to cum, sir.”

“Why do you think that?” His brother probes.

“For being a brat.” Sherlock tries to avert his eyes away from his brother’s, but Mycroft’s fingers hold firmly to his hair. “I am sorry, sir.”

There is a flicker of surprise in his brother’s eyes, but it quickly disappears. Mycroft releases Sherlock’s hair and reaches for the box containing his collar.

“Then it is agreed. You will not orgasm today.” Mycroft removes the collar from the box.

“Yes, sir.” Sherlock has a feeling it is going to be a tortuous night.

His brother places and buckles the collar around his neck.

Sherlock asks, “Do I get something up my arse, sir?”

Mycroft actually smiles, “Not yet – I am going to shave you first – little brother.”

Shave what? Sherlock wonders as his brother gets up from the armchair and pulls him up from his position. His legs and feet feel slightly numb and tingly as Mycroft leads him somewhere else.

.

.

He is lying on his back on a towel placed on the floor of the bathroom. Mycroft’s fingers run through the thick thatch of pubic hair that is not quite black – but a lighter shade.

“This has got to go, brother mine.” Mycroft gently tugs at the coarse hair.

He watches as his brother takes a pair of sharp looking scissors. God – is he really allowing Mycroft to come so near his genitalia with something so sharp? His brother pulls the hair taut and cuts efficiently – as if he has done many times before. Afterwards, Mycroft soaks a towel with warm water and places it over the shorn hair, before grabbing some shaving cream and a razor from a cupboard.

“When it grows back, it’s going to be itchy as hell – so I suggest that you keep it bare.” Mycroft informs, “You can shave it yourself, get it professionally waxed or I can do it – although I might not always have the time for it.”

His brother pulls the towel away from his crotch and lathers the area in shaving cream. Sherlock watches – with some small sense of loss – as Mycroft removes the rest of the hair from his groin. His brother then pulls the delicate skin of his scrotal sac, to get rid of the hairs on there. It’s an odd feeling, looking down there and seeing his hairless crotch and balls. It is skin that he hasn’t seen since he was a prepubescent child.

He feels incredibly vulnerable like this.

“Flip around.” Mycroft orders.

Oh god – the arse too… Sherlock thinks as he moves to a prone position. His brother wets another towel with warm water and spreads his cheeks to wet the hair in his crack. He feels the coolness of the shaving cream being applied, and Mycroft shaves the hair carefully.

His brother slaps his bum when he is done, causing Sherlock to yelp in surprise.

“Go wash your nether regions, brother – I will see you on the rug when you are done.”

.

.

“Something different today, brother.” Mycroft holds up a glass plug so Sherlock could see it in the mirror. “You might like it.”

Sherlock jerks when the tip of the plug touches his sphincter – fuck – it is cold! 

His brother pulls the plug away and replaces the coldness with his warm fingers. Mycroft rubs at the sensitive and depilated flesh at the periphery of his hole, before lubricating his fingers and inserting two directly into him. His brother takes his time to work him open, and deliberately massages his prostate; Sherlock moans at the sensation – feeling his cock hardening at the treatment – and he knows his brother is not going to make this easy for him, whatsoever.

“Even though you are not coming, I still want you hard.” Mycroft says with slight grin. “I want you aroused and desperate, pet.”

Sherlock responds with another moan as his brother rubs again at the perfect spot. He sighs when his brother’s fingers retreat. Mycroft squeezes some lubricant directly into his arsehole, before he feels the cold glass plug breach his opening – causing him to hiss. The coldness mercilessly invades his canal – the plug itself is smaller than the one that Sherlock had used earlier in the day, so it goes in with relative ease. He almost leaps up when his brother spanks one of his cheeks – the cold plug shifting within him catches him by surprise.

Mycroft chuckles. “So beautifully responsive, little brother. Some Dominants prefer their subs restrained in their reactions, but I very much enjoy your normal responses. Now, I think I want you to suck my cock.”

Sherlock watches Mycroft get up from the rug and head for a wooden chair at the desk nearby. He makes a move to stand up, but his brother orders, “Crawl.”

He blushes slightly, but obediently follows his brother on all fours – the damnable cold plug moving rhythmically with his movements. Some part of his brain thinks – at least the plug doesn’t have a furry tail attached at the end. It could always be worse….

His brother sits at the chair, and Sherlock kneels in between Mycroft’s legs. His brother doesn’t immediately order him to undo his trousers – instead, Mycroft runs his fingers under Sherlock’s smooth jaw, before sliding them with his palm into his hair at the back of his head.

“My beautiful boy – “ Mycroft says, while stroking his scalp in a way that makes Sherlock’s toes curl in pleasure. “I was looking forward to rewarding you today. I didn’t orgasm either during the time I denied you. I thought of you edging yourself for me every time you asked to come via text – and I edged myself as well…”

Sherlock shivers, imagining his brother stroking himself every time he had sent one of those hated texts – knowing that he was for sure going to be denied; a true exercise in futility. He truly feels bad now – he had ruined not only his own fun – but something that his brother had been looking forward to for several days now too.

“It’s the job of your Dominant to teach you how to behave. Even though I can never claim you publicly as mine, I do expect a certain standard of behaviour – brother. So, I will tell you what your punishment is if you do indeed come without permission.”

“What is it?” Sherlock asks curiously.

“I was going to introduce it later – when we had agreed upon a play contract – but I figured, why not now.” Mycroft opens a drawer at the desk and pulls out a metal contraption.

Fuck – a cock cage. Made out of stainless steel, with bars that run both horizontally and vertically, a ring that would encircle his scrotum and complete with a hole at the bottom for urinating – or inserting a sound… Sherlock had seen them while he had been doing a search of orgasm denial. And he doesn’t have to ask his brother to know that the cage is custom-made for him; he intrinsically knows it is.

“You knew I was going to end up here…” Sherlock looks pointedly at his brother. “From the very beginning.”

“I hoped.” Mycroft says, “I was not certain – but I had a feeling you would be receptive. But anyways, your punishment will be to wear it for an hour or two. Tomorrow morning. While I tease you mercilessly.”

It sounds like absolute torture, especially on top of everything else he would have endured up to that point. And even if he manages to avoid it tomorrow – Sherlock knows that it will become inevitable at some point. His brother certainly did not buy a custom-made cock cage to just to scare him into behaving.

“Now, that you know the consequences, you can suck my cock now, pet.” Mycroft gives Sherlock one last fond caress.

His fingers deftly move to reveal his brother’s partially erect cock – with some help from Mycroft himself. He can’t help but to look at the thick thatch of pubic hair that surrounds the base of his brother’s sizable penis and compare it to his own bare crotch – just simply another power differential between his brother and him. His brother simply waits patiently, before Sherlock finally laps at the slit with his pink tongue, tasting the precum. His tongue then swipes teasingly along Mycroft’s frenulum, before he engulfs as much as could of his brother’s shaft into his mouth. Mycroft groans. Today, Sherlock could get a lot more of his brother’s cock down his throat before gagging – positioning himself strategically to lengthen his neck and throat, directing the tip of the prick away from the back of the tongue and raising his eyebrows to lower his tongue in order to further open up his throat. He lets his brother’s cock slip out of his mouth and rasps, “Fuck my throat, sir.”

Mycroft looks surprised, but he says, “It’s too soon, brother mine. In a week or two – maybe.”

Sherlock takes in his brother’s prick again, this time taking him as deep as he could go without gagging. He swallows, hums and sucks around his brother’s cock, hollowing his cheeks as he does so – enjoying the noises of pleasure Mycroft makes. The slight movements of the now-warmer glass plug up his arse, combined with the pleasure of blowing his brother fuels a constant simmering of arousal in his pelvis. His brother suddenly pulls at his hair – and Sherlock feels the spurt of cum go down deep in his throat and he swallows without tasting any of it.

His brother looks quite impressed and somewhat dazed. “Goodness, brother – you will be a better cocksucker than any whore out there in a few weeks.”

Sherlock blushes furiously – never has he dreamed he would be happy to be compared to a prostitute.

.

.

“What are you doing to me, brother?” Sherlock asks as Mycroft finishes tying him to the headboard of the bed – his arms are spread out, and his legs are folded over and tied adjacent to his ears. It is not the most comfortable position to be tied up in, but Sherlock can see that the position presents his crotch quite well.

“Would you like to be blindfolded or not?” Mycroft asks, ignoring his question.

There is also an extra sheet placed over the bed – whatever this is, it is going to be messy – Sherlock deduces. “I want to see, sir.”

“Very well.” Mycroft nods. His brother presses a kiss against his cheek. “You will like this.”

“Will I?” Sherlock asks, as Mycroft caresses his skin, tracing the clavicles, his sensitive sides, the inner thighs and even frigs his cock a few times – keeping him hard. Finally, his brother traces the rim of his stretched hole, before finally reaching over to the nightstand for a candle in the shade of scarlet red.

“Paraffin.” Mycroft states, while grabbing a lighter and lighting the candle.

Wax play – Sherlock thinks. This might hurt… Maybe he should have asked for the blindfold… And now it makes sense why his brother had shaved him today.

“Watch me, brother mine.” Mycroft demands.

Sherlock watches his brother drip wax – not onto him – but onto his own wrist, testing the temperature.

He hisses when the first drop of wax hits his clavicle – and he feels his cock react. He isn’t surprised anymore by his reaction to pain – it’s his physiological idiosyncrasy which matches up with Mycroft’s desire to inflict pain for pleasure.

“More?” Mycroft asks him.

“Yes, fuck –“ Sherlock groans audibly as his brother draws a line between his two clavicles with the wax. “Hurt me. Please.”

“Of course.” Mycroft skillfully creates a vertical line on his chest.

Sherlock yelps when the wax hits his nipple – his brother had created a chevron that connects to the initial vertical line he had drawn. And another vertical line finishes the ‘M’ on his chest. An ‘H’ is drawn on the other side and elicits a loud moan when the horizontal line of the ‘H’ travels over his other sensitive bud.

“Possessive much?” Sherlock muses breathlessly as he watches Mycroft admires his work.

“You will find that I enjoy marking my property, little brother.” Mycroft moves the candle a few inches closer, causing Sherlock to moan with pain when the wax is poured over his abdomen in decorative stripes. The wax stings – but Sherlock finds himself quite enjoying the sensation afterwards – he could feel his arousal building with every line his brother draws on him. His brother moves the candle further away, and he hisses with agony when a drop lands on his exposed scrotum. The drips of wax alternate between his testicles, before his brother moves on to his perineum  - allowing a generous amount to fall on that sensitive skin – Sherlock almost howls – more from shock rather than the pain. He mewls with pleasure when his brother starts drawing alternating stripes on his inner thighs – Mycroft lets the candle creep closer with every line he draws, increasing the sensation to the point where Sherlock is wriggling in his bonds in a futile attempt to escape the merciless drops of wax.

His brother then stops.

“Should I?” Mycroft looks pointedly at Sherlock’s prick, which is still hard.

What reasonable person would agree to this? Sherlock knows he is allowed to say no, and his brother would stop and there would be no consequences – but…

“Yes –“ Sherlock’s consenting syllable turns into hisses when the first drop lands on the shaft of his cock. He squirms and writhes in agony and pleasure in his bonds when his brother drops more wax down his length and he cries out when the wax rains down quickly onto his glans and strikes the slit.

“Amazing.” Mycroft finally blows the candle out. “There is nothing more beautiful than a submissive willing to take the pain I inflict upon them.” His brother works to free Sherlock from the ropes, massages the sore freed limbs and presses an adoring and reverent kiss to the corner of Sherlock’s lips. There is a hungry feral look in Mycroft’s eyes – and Sherlock finds himself wishing that he is allowed to come – because he knows now that his brother wants to and is going to fuck him before the night is done. God – how would he ever survive without coming? He might as well accept his inevitable fate.

Mycroft’s fingers reach for his glans, break off the chunks of dried wax and gently caresses the oversensitive flesh – causing him to try and squirm away from his brother. Even gentle touches were way too much stimulation. But, Mycroft has one arm tightly encircled around his waist, preventing him from fleeing, while the other continues to break off the wax on his cock and scrotum in a relentless tormenting fashion, before moving to his perineum. Sherlock gives up his struggle partway and submits – earning himself another sweet kiss from his brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the support :)


	6. Chapter 6

A frisson of pleasure tingles within Sherlock’s body when something warm and wet caresses the rim of his stretched hole. His brother’s tongue – his mind helpfully provides – exerts more pressure against the sensitive skin, eliciting moans of pleasure that fall unrestrainedly. Mycroft’s fingers replace his tongue, gently massaging the area. The digits tug teasingly at the glass plug; Sherlock trembles.

“You like this? Having your pretty pink hole plugged up like this, pet?” Mycroft asks as he flicks lightly at the base of the toy, causing Sherlock to squirm some more.

“Yes, sir.” Sherlock barely manages, as Mycroft continues to lightly tease him.

“If I asked you to, would you wear a plug all day long?” Mycroft asks as Sherlock hears him squeeze some lubricant, and he feels a lubed finger gently brush against his rim. “Imagine the possibilities, pet – your hole wet and open at all times – for me to fuck you whenever and wherever I want to.”

Fuck – that would be so distracting. It is bad enough that he is aching and wanting all the time due to his brother’s enjoyment of orgasmal denial, but to walk around with something rubbing against all his pleasurable spots inside? That just sounds like another level of hell. He would think of his brother all day long – not that he doesn’t at the moment. And, Mycroft fucking him at any time of the day – god – what a thought. He groans when one of Mycroft’s fingers breaches his plugged hole – the digit teasingly massages his inner wall.

“Brother mine?” Mycroft prompts, while working a second finger in – Sherlock is feeling full.

Not wanting to get into any more trouble for not answering, Sherlock replies, “Yes, sir.” And isn’t that the truth? He loves the sensation of being filled – and his cock twitches at the thought of having something physically concrete to remind him that he is owned – and at the thought of Mycroft randomly popping by at irregular intervals and fucking him into oblivion each time.

Egad, he is already thinking of himself as Mycroft’s property – even though they had not thoroughly discussed the subject yet. And, of course – the ‘M’ and the ‘H’ on his chest still remains, even though the rest of the scarlet wax had been painstakingly cleared off his body earlier – so, evidently Mycroft still desires to own him as well.

“You are a proper slut, aren’t you?” Mycroft pulls the glass plug out of his hole – before Sherlock could feel and whine about the sensation of emptiness, his brother sticks three of his digits in and scissors. “Not even two weeks of this, and you long for a cock up your arse or down your lovely long throat. Or maybe even both at the same time…”

Sherlock could feel himself harden at that image – although he really does not want anyone else’s cock but his brother’s.

He feels guilty for his bodily reaction.

“Mm… you like that, filthy boy.” Mycroft chides while playfully slapping his arse, causing him to yelp.

“I only want yours, sir.” Sherlock lets the words come out in a rapid stream.

“Turn to lie on your back, little brother.” Mycroft orders, his voice suddenly tender – so different from the one speaking sordid things to him seconds ago.

Sherlock obeys, and flips onto his back with his brother’s fingers still within him. There is a vast amount of emotion in his brother’s blue irises – not to mention that for the first time – his brother is completely naked during a scene. He takes in all that glorious dark fur decorating Mycroft’s pale skin and his brother’s slim body that doesn’t justify Sherlock’s years of insults. And not to mention that awesome cock that rises from the matching dark thatch of pubic hair. Mycroft’s digits slowly slip out of him, leaving him empty, but his brother leans over to kiss him, and his non-lube coated hand gently caresses his face.

“I prefer not to share.” Mycroft states seriously. “And I would never let anyone else touch you – unless if it is something you truly want. And there is a difference between fantasy and reality, little brother – you are allowed to get aroused at things you don’t want to happen in reality. Do not feel guilty for that – ever. I will whisper to you lots of filthy fantasies, and we will never do most of them. Do you understand, Sherlock?” His brother leans down again to press another kiss.

Sherlock nods. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Mycroft says, “And you aren’t just any run-of-the-mill slut – aren’t you? You are my filthy little cock slut. Mm? You want my cock?”

“Please fuck me.” Sherlock finds himself asking, his empty bottom is desperate to be filled. “Yes, I want your cock, sir.”

“Say it then, pet.” Mycroft’s words are heated; his gaze intense – staring straight into Sherlock’s eyes. “Tell me that you are my good little cock slut, brother and I might give you what you need.”

Sherlock feels the warmth of the flush on his face. God, the things his brother demands of him. But, he burns for it – he needs Mycroft’s cock like he needs water. His pride is not needed here – he just needs to submit. “Please… I am your good little cock slut. Fuck me…” The mortifying syllables slip through his mouth. And is that not true as well? He’s been craving Mycroft’s cock for days now.

His brother was right – this is corruption and ruination. And he doesn’t think that there is anything in this world that could undo this.

Mycroft doesn’t say anything, but his eyes look hungrily at him. His brother grabs a pillow and shoves it under his arse, before lining up his cock with his lube-slick hole, and thrusts in without hesitation – Sherlock groans at the intrusion. Mycroft rocks his hips gently – it is very different from their first fuck a few days ago. Much more affectionate – and it feels so good and so right. He mewls with pleasure when his brother angles his strokes to graze against his prostate.

“God – how decadent you look, brother mine.” Mycroft says in between his altered breaths. “My collar around your throat; my initials on your chest; my cock in your arse. I only wish you were mine.”

“I am.” Sherlock gasps, as Mycroft increases the force and speed of his thrusts. “Yours.”

“Soon…” Mycroft bends over to kiss him again and looks at him knowingly. “Don’t you want to come, little brother?” His brother’s voice is pure sin – a temptation offered by the devil.

God – how he wants to – especially now since his brother is pretty much making love to him, rather than simply fucking him. His cock is hard, aching and dripping precum between them. Why couldn’t he keep his fucking mouth shut – just for one bloody day?

But, the cock cage… He shivers – he doesn’t even want to think about it.

“Could you come like this, I wonder? Untouched.” Mycroft wonders in a teasing fashion, while his prick is stroking him in the all the right ways, and Sherlock is feeling that familiar warmth build up in his cock, balls and groin – how he wants it. And he is close.

Too close.

“Mycroft, please.” He whimpers – he feels absolutely powerless. This is absolutely torture. “I am so close…” He whines.

“I want to finish in you, brother mine.” Mycroft’s breathing is becoming increasingly stilted. “I can finish you too, but you know the consequences.”

“Mycroft…” Sherlock pleads – he does not even know what he is begging for. For his brother to let him come? Or, to stop before reaching the point of no return? He doesn’t know. The tension in his pelvis is incredible, and with every second that elapses, agreeing to orgasm seems like an increasingly fantastic idea.

“I want it.” Sherlock pants, “Please.”

“I won’t touch you.” Mycroft says. “Let’s see if you can come like this, pet.”

His brother starts chasing his own orgasm, fucking into him with abandon. Every second or third stroke grazes at that perfect spot, and Sherlock longs to use his hand to bring himself off.  But he doesn’t dare do so. His own orgasm catches him by surprise, the ejaculate gets on both of their torsos, while Mycroft comes as his internal walls contract tightly, strangling the seed out. His brother collapses on top of him, and they both lie there, afflicted by the post-coital cocktail of bliss.

“I am going to regret this, am I, brother?” Sherlock asks as soon as he regains the ability to talk.

Mycroft nuzzles at him affectionately. “You might. But, you might as well experience it now… I very much enjoy locking up subs and tormenting them.” There is a dark tone of promise in Mycroft’s syllables. “And, I look forward to teaching you the joys of such torments, brother mine.” Mycroft presses an adoring kiss on his lips before detaching himself from his limbs and rising up from the bed. His brother rummages around for a fresh silicone anal plug – larger than the glass one that had been in his arse earlier, but around the thickness of Mycroft’s prick.

Sherlock watches his brother push the dripping cum from his hole back into his anus, before gently pressing the toy into his well-used hole. There is something fantastically dirty about this – the act of keeping his brother’s cum in his arse – that causes his cock to become interested again.

Mycroft laughs in a pleased manner. “Ah, little brother – how delightfully responsive you are. But, just know that I am definitely not going to let you come again until your punishment is over.”

And somehow, his prick fills further – further amusing his brother.


	7. Chapter 7

“Fetch me your cage, pet.” Mycroft practically pushes Sherlock out of the bed the next morning, where they had slept spooning each other during the night. “And bring me a plug.” His brother orders sharply, “And crawl!”, just as Sherlock is about to walk over to the desk.

Apparently, the simple act of walking is now a privilege denied to him. Without complaint – whether because it is too bloody early in the morning to function properly, or him not daring to add more punishment to Mycroft’s planned schedule of activities – he bends down to get on his hands and knees. He feels his brother’s eyes rake across his naked form – with a brief pause at his bum.

Sherlock opens the drawer that Mycroft had shown him last evening, stares at its contents – the ring and the cage – before finally reaching in and grabbing the pieces of stainless-steel hardware. Speaking of his cock, it is already semi-erect – the phenomenon of morning wood – and he really needs to piss. Something tells him that heading for the bathroom right now would not be an appropriate course of action.

He hesitates again when his gaze falls upon the array of assorted butt plugs in the box under the bed, for he is not certain what to bring back to his brother. Nothing too large today – his hole is slightly sore from yesterday’s activities, but he still wants something that would fill him. So, he settles for something slightly smaller than Mycroft’s prick.

When he turns around, his brother has laid a sheet down on the rug, adjacent to the mirror. Mycroft sits cross-legged on top, clad in his luxurious pajamas, with the dominant air of an emperor. Sherlock drops the items into the silk-covered lap.

“Good boy.” Mycroft grabs a fistful of his curls and forcefully tugs him closer.

A gentle kiss is pressed on the corner of his lips, before Mycroft lets him go.

“Your cage first, I think.” His brother picks up the thick steel ring. “Present yourself, pet.”

With some trepidation, Sherlock settles back on his knees and spreads out his thighs, exposing his genitalia to Mycroft.

God, there is something about his brother making him bring his own implements of torture – of course everything is consensual, and Sherlock knows he could utter one word and end this – but this makes him an active participant of his own torment rather than a passive one.

His brother grabs his scrotal sac and pushes one of his testicles through the ring, before dealing with his other testicle. His cock is slipped through – the result is snug, but not tight enough to cut off circulation. The cage is placed on next – Sherlock does not enjoy the sensation of cold metal on his prick – and he watches his brother manipulate the pieces before slipping a lock through the aligned holes. Before Sherlock could even analyze his feelings about being caged, his brother has him flipped on his back, and a lubricated finger is toying with the rim of his arsehole. The cage itself isn’t painful – Sherlock would describe it as uncomfortable, cold and heavy. But, he quickly changes his mind when his brother continues to finger his hole – eventually massaging his prostate. He can feel his penis attempt to become erect, but the metal bars cruelly dig into the sensitive flesh, preventing this natural state from occurring.

He fails to suppress the whine of frustration and pain that escapes from his lips, earning himself a knowing smirk from his sadistic brother.

“You do not like this, little brother?” Mycroft asks in a tone that does not require an answer. There is a scary gleam in his eyes. “And here I thought you enjoyed having your pretty little hole fingered like any other good slut.” The words flow innocently from his brother, while a second finger breaches his arse.

Sherlock squirms, torn between wanting to fuck himself further on his brother’s fingers, or to pull himself away. His metal-sheathed cock bobs uselessly in the air – the flesh pushing futilely against the unyielding material. The pain arouses him – god his neural circuitry is totally fucked up – causing his prick to increase its efforts at hardening; a true vicious cycle. He whimpers when his brother shoves a third finger and spreads him wider. Drops of glistening precum start forming from his slit.

“Mm… you are dripping, pet.” Mycroft observes, while picking up the plug. “How lovely you look like this.”

His brother presses the toy into his hole after lubricating it generously – it slides in with minimal resistance. Finally, Mycroft gets him to kneel in front of the mirror.

“Look at yourself, pet.”

Sherlock does.

He is a mess. Despite his own sometimes cavalier attitude towards his transport, Sherlock has a vain streak – for instance, he would spend an undisclosed amount of time fussing over his hair when he gets out of bed. But instead at this moment, his hair is curling wildly in whichever direction Mycroft had pulled it previously. The scarlet ‘M’ and ‘H’ on his chest is starting to flake off. He feels rather gross – neither him or Mycroft had gone to the bathroom since they had woken up.

Not to mention the collar that rests around his neck; it is a comfortable and familiar pressure. And the cage – which makes his cock look smaller and of course renders the organ impotent. Everything screams that his brother owns him; and isn’t that that the psychology of it all? It is by design that Mycroft orders him to look at himself in the mirror during these scenes. Cementing and reinforcing the thought and image that he belongs on his knees.

While he is thinking, Mycroft pulls out his own cock from the slit in his pajama bottoms.

“I think, little brother, that you think too much for a pet.” Mycroft’s lips quirk into a mischievous smile.

A certain flicker in his brother’s eyes gives away his next move – supported by the evidence of the sheet on the ground. Mycroft is going to urinate on him – piss on him. His brother simply grins at the knowledge that Sherlock knows what is going to happen.

Sherlock can see the golden stream leave his brother’s cock, splash warmly on his clavicle and drip down his chest and abdomen. Some of the liquid runs down his arm and even into his armpit.

This is certainly a new level of desecration.

A primitive method of marking and claiming.

He ought to be outraged and disgusted, but he is not. There is a strange intimacy about the entire thing, and Sherlock finds himself wanting some affection from his brother. Mycroft seems to understand Sherlock’s need and sits back down on the floor. He allows Sherlock to rub his face against his chest – seeming not to care about the dripping piss.

“Piss for me, brother.” Mycroft whispers in his ear. “Now.” The syllable is gentle, but nevertheless – it is an order.

Sherlock flushes, hiding his face in embarrassment in the silken material of his brother’s pajama top. For some reason, it is more embarrassing to go, than to get pissed on.

“I know you have to go.” Mycroft continues. “Do it now, pet.”

And he does. The piss leaves his cock through the little hole in the cage and stains the sheet beneath him in a puddle of urine. He can feel the warmth of the liquid radiating to his legs. It is absolutely mortifying, even though this is the second time he had pissed in front of his brother.

“Good.” Mycroft leans forward to kiss him on the cheek.

“May we shower?” Sherlock asks his first question of the day.

“Not yet.” Mycroft replies back, much to Sherlock’s horror. “I want you to suck my cock and ride me. Then, we will consider the shower, pet.”

.

.

On his knees, Sherlock licks daintily at the glans of his brother’s cock. His tongue swirls teasingly around the frenulum, not really bothering with the application of pressure. The unamused expression on Mycroft’s face amuses him greatly; he might be the collared and caged one covered in musty smelling piss – but he does have control over this. His brother groans when Sherlock suddenly takes a sizable portion of his cock into his mouth, applies a bit of sloppy tongue work and lets the phallus slip out of his mouth with an obscene ‘pop’.

He whimpers when Mycroft grabs a bunch of hair and pulls hard.

“I do not recall teaching you to be such a tease, pet.” His brother admonishes, but there is a fondness somewhere underneath the annoyed tone.

Sherlock simply engulfs more of Mycroft’s lovely thick cock into his mouth and sucks. He hums around it; he is quite happy to kneel here and perform oral sex for his brother for as long as his knees could stand it. Although, his poor locked prick is still haplessly trying to become erect. He has never been so aware of his cock in his entire life. And he knows that as long as the contraption stays, there is no way he would be able to come. So, instead – to distract himself, he focuses on giving Mycroft the best blow job that is within him to give.

His brother sighs with pleasure and rewards him with some delicious tugs of his hair right at the scalp. Sherlock finds himself moaning at the sensation, pulling back slightly as to not choke on Mycroft’s prick. All to soon, his brother pulls himself out of Sherlock’s mouth with reluctance.

.

.

The anal plug is removed from Sherlock’s hole with a wet squelching noise. He mounts himself on his brother’s cock, slowly fucking himself on it. This is going to be torture. Mycroft had fastened a cock ring at the base of his own prick – he knows with that, his brother erection will last longer, prolonging the scene. He would be the one doing all the work. Mycroft is quite happy to lie on the bed and watch him. And from his vantage point, he can also see his reflection in the mirror from the bed.

His own useless cock is leaking a copious amount of fluid onto his brother. He doesn’t know how long the cage has been on him, but he is starting to reach the point to consider begging for its removal.

“If you didn’t want to be caged, little brother – you shouldn’t have came yesterday. Nor been a brat.” Mycroft says rather sternly, despite his eyes hungrily following the undulating motion of Sherlock’s hips as he continues to fuck himself on his brother’s prick. “Although I am rather partial to the idea of keeping you locked up. If you want to be mine brother – it means your cock is mine too. As are your orgasms. I take it that I don’t need to explain what that would entail?”

That thought had never crossed Sherlock’s mind – even when he had been doing his naughty internet browsing. Yes, he knew about cock cages and had come across blogs from submissives who wore them practically all the time – but he hadn’t expected this from his brother! But, yet, it made some sense. His brother enjoys being in control and micromanagement. Of course, Mycroft would love the idea of controlling access to his prick in this extreme way. And if he was ever very very naughty, his brother could throw away the key and never ever let him have another orgasm again.

Goodness, what a thought!

His brother looks highly amused – as if he had read every thought that had gone through his mind.

“Unless if that is something you are secretly fantasizing about brother, I don’t think I would be so cruel.” Mycroft says as Sherlock increases the speed of his hip work, chasing for an orgasm that would never manifest. He moans as his brother’s cock rubs him in all the spots he likes. “Some subs are into that. Could you imagine, pet – you being my plaything? Your body – to be used according to my whims with no consideration of your pleasure? And more importantly – do toys get to cum?”

Mycroft looks pointedly at him – obviously expecting an answer.

Sherlock is starting to sweat from his exertions. There is a mild buildup of lactic acid in his beginning to burn muscles. And there was something appealing about the idea of being used solely for Mycroft’s pleasure – although he wouldn’t want to give up the privilege of orgasm – not when he had just discovered how nice it could be in the previous weeks. His cock leaks painfully in confinement; his sex-inexperienced body is starting to cry for some sort of release. But he knows he needs to respond. “No, sir.” He breathes noisily.

“Exactly…” Mycroft is starting to look, and sound affected by Sherlock’s predicament. “Once used, the toys get put away.” His brother says ominously, sending a few chills down Sherlock’s spine. “But you aren’t a toy – pet. You are a gorgeous slut desperate for cock, aren’t you? You fucking yourself on my prick as if you could come from this.”

“Mycroft…” Sherlock whines desperately.        

That is exactly the problem – he can’t come like this. He can feel the pressure build up in his swollen balls, pelvis and even his abdomen. But it is going to go nowhere.

Oh god, and there are people who deliberately have this as their fantasy? He can handle pain, but this type of agony might be beyond what he could endure.

He contemplates the use of his safeword for the first time.

“Get off my cock, little brother.” Mycroft orders after watching Sherlock struggle both physically and mentally for a minute or two.

His brother immediately repositions them; Sherlock is lying on his back, and Mycroft is standing. His brother’s prick reenters him again, but this time Mycroft thrusts into him – chasing for completion while his own caged cock wobbles between them. Sherlock whines when Mycroft’s hand closes around his sensitive prick, gently stroking the flesh between the bars.

Sherlock is in tears when his brother finally climaxes, spilling his seed deep.

“Sh…” Mycroft whispers as he pulls Sherlock closer. “You did well, little brother. My lovely creature. Gorgeous boy.”

“I won’t ever be a brat again.” Sherlock whimpers into his brother’s hairy chest.

“That, I highly doubt – brother.” Mycroft replies – realistically. “But it is nice, to find something that is actually a punishment for you. At the beginning of a new dom/sub relationship, it can be hard to sort out those details. Now let me free your cock.”

Sherlock sighs in relief when his brother fetches the key and removes the cage from his prick. His cock immediately engorges.

A sharp look from his brother warns him not to touch his freed member.

“We will finish your case tomorrow.” Mycroft says to him seriously. “And then, maybe – I will finish you.”

“Mycroft…” Sherlock complains in absolute dismay.

“I have already been too lenient with you.” His brother sighs deeply. “Punishments are not meant to be fun, brother. As much as I would like to put you out of your misery – in the interests of our long-term relationship, we better establish that punishments are punishments. Now, little brother – let’s go take that shower.”

Sherlock follows Mycroft into the bathroom, where his brother would affectionately wash and dry him. 


	8. Chapter 8

His fingers idly trace the intricate designs of the tumbler containing a decadent vintage of whiskey. Mycroft is late – Sherlock thinks as he allows the exquisite alcohol to pass his lips. He is in a surprisingly upscale bar, housed in a nondescript building at the address his brother had given him. The afternoon Sunday crowd is thin – a few groups of chatty friends, some dates, a business meeting between associates – the usual patrons of such a locale.

On closer examination, Sherlock realizes that this might not be an ordinary watering hole. At a table directly in his line of vision, a gray suited man wearing a white mask that covered half his face in a diagonal manner has his arms moving suspiciously under the table, while his tablemate clad in a tight t-shirt seems to be fighting an urge to squirm. It really does not take much deductive power to figure out that this is a Dominant teasing a sub – also Sherlock could read the Dominant’s lips from where he is sitting.

“What a shameless thing you are – boy. I bet you’d like it if I fucked you on top of this table right now.”

“Oh, what’s that? You want to come? Right here? Right now? You do know that everyone here has their eyes on you – slut.”

God, how much Sherlock wants to cum! Right here and right now seem like fantastic ideas. His own cock hidden underneath the faded denim of his jeans fills a bit from reading the filthy suggestions offered by the lips of the mysterious Dominant. After Mycroft had let him go yesterday, it had taken every gram of Sherlock’s self-control to not take his hand to his needy organ and rub himself off. Unconsciously, the tips of his fingers toy with the fly of his jeans. When two of his digits grasp the zipper, Sherlock quickly jerks his arm away – as if he had just been burned.

What was he doing? Was he really thinking of whipping his prick out and orgasming in the middle of this bar? Has he really gone from being practically asexual to completely shameless in the brief timespan of two weeks?

He is utterly surprised when the white masked Dominant that he had been watching walks over confidently to his table. There is an expression of absolute amusement on the man’s face. Sherlock can deduce that the man knows exactly what he had done in the last five shameless minutes of his life. His cheeks burn in embarrassment at the knowing glint in the man’s brown eyes.

“You’ve been watching us.” The man’s smooth dark voice states. There is no accusatory tone in his words. “While thinking of getting off in the middle of this bar, hm? I do enjoy naughty and pretty boys like you – would you like to play for an afternoon with my sub and I?”

“I am waiting for my Dominant.” Sherlock finds himself uncharacteristically stammering, although one part of his brain is conjuring up what kind of experiences such an afternoon could bring.

“Oh, my apologies.” The man gives an impishly charming smile, “Although, if you were mine, I would never let you come to such a place by yourself.”

“Set, kindly leave my sub alone.” His brother’s voice interrupts the conversation.

The Dominant, Set, as well as Sherlock turn around to see Mycroft stride imposingly towards them. Sherlock looks at his brother in shock; Mycroft is not wearing his customary three-piece suit – the way his brother is dressed could be best described as rakish. Like Set, his brother wears a mask; it is made from dark silk with traces of gold, matching Sherlock’s collar. And good heavens, are those rips in his normally immaculate brother’s shirt?

“I didn’t realize that he was yours, M.” Set looks sincerely apologetic.

“Well… now you know.” Mycroft places his palm down with an intimidating weight behind the gesture. There is a dangerous smile on his brother’s face; it is quite different from his usual Iceman persona.

And Sherlock understands that at this moment, he is looking at M the Dominant; not Mycroft the British government or some other variation.

A dangerous, dominant man.

He cannot pull his eyes away.

And he realizes that his brother is a terribly _terribly_ attractive man.

His brother smiles slyly at him, before Set bows curtly and makes his goodbyes, “I better see to my darling now – maybe I will see you in the dungeon later – M.”

Set leaves and Mycroft takes the chair across from Sherlock. His brother grabs the tumbler that Sherlock had been drinking from and sniffs. “You have expensive taste – pet.”

“You can have some – sir.” Sherlock replies, still busy drinking in the image of his dashing brother.

“I think not.” Mycroft pushes the tumbler back. “I don’t drink and play, Sherlock.”

“Always the responsible one.” Sherlock grabs the glass and has another delicate sip – savouring all of those divine wooden notes.

Mycroft grabs Sherlock’s free arm and rests his index finger over his radial artery. “Someone has to be.” The words are solemnly said, as his brother takes his pulse, which becomes tachycardic with his touch. Mycroft caresses the delicate skin of his inner wrist, before lifting Sherlock’s hand and lightly brushing his lips against each one of his fingers. It is an incredibly tender gesture, and sends tendrils of warmth down Sherlock’s nerves, down to his ever-erect cock and causes his toes to curl.

His brother then smirks at him, “So, what naughty thing did you do to catch Master Set’s eye – pet?”

Sherlock is affronted, “What makes you think I did anything?”

“Kindly do not take that tone with me, pet – not in public like this. Appearances must be maintained.” Mycroft reprimands. “It wouldn’t be the first time a Dominant has punished a sub in this bar.”

His treacherous mind goes back to Master Set’s threat of fucking his sub on the bar table. It had genuinely sounded like a real threat. Would his brother do such a thing? Fuck him in public – not giving a crap about the audience?

“Pet.” Mycroft’s tone has a hint of warning in it.

Quickly Sherlock lowers his eyes and replies, “I am sorry, sir.”

“Better.” Mycroft states. “You can tell me – you know. If this is going to work at all, pet – we have to communicate with each other. I know our relationship was complicated in the past.” His brother stops there for a moment, takes a deep breath and continues. “I want this to work. ‘This’ being defined as our relationship as Dominant and Submissive. As lovers even.”

“Should we be having this conversation here, sir?” Sherlock finishes the whiskey.

“It’s fine to talk about it here.” Mycroft says, “But we can go into my room. Come.” His brother pulls out his wallet, pulls out two one-hundred-pound notes and throws them lightly onto the table to cover Sherlock’s drink.

As he gets out of the chair, Sherlock’s hand twitches towards his cock – his brother did order him to come – right?

Mycroft turns to look at him, with a knowing look.

“You know better.” His brother warns.

He wonders what Mycroft’s reaction would be if he actually pulled his prick out and stroked himself to completion, right here and right now. He whimpers when his brother possessively places an arm around his waist and pinches the sensitive flesh of his abdomen after slipping his hand underneath Sherlock’s t-shirt.

“Naughty boy. I can see exactly why you attract so much trouble. Any Dominant within the vicinity would have happily punished you.” Mycroft takes out a black card with a gold insignia and swipes it in a card reader of an undecorated door near the bar’s washrooms. “You just want someone or something to finish you off.” The door opens, revealing a stairwell. Unlike the modern look of the bar, the inside here is decorated in a gothic style. When the door closes behind them, Mycroft cruelly palms at Sherlock’s cock through his jeans. He whispers in his ear, “That’s the problem with subs – all they think about is their cock. About their next orgasm. And how they can manipulate their Dominants to get them.”

“Myc, please.” Sherlock’s back is literally against the wall. He is squirming – trying to escape his brother’s rough attention – just as Master Set’s sub was earlier. “I want you.”

“You have me.” Mycroft’s fingers deftly unbuckle Sherlock’s belt while he leans forward to press an affectionate kiss on Sherlock’s lips.

“I want to come.” Sherlock says desperately, as his brother’s hand ignores his cock altogether and strokes the delicate skin of his inner thighs.

“Of course, you do.” Mycroft answers. “But, your request – my lovely beautiful sub – is not granted. You know, pet – some Dominants would say that this is the optimal state for a sub – aroused and denied.”

“Even if you love me?” Sherlock moans when his brother’s fingers stroke up from his thighs to his perineum, bypassing his weeping cock.

“My darling boy – I deny you because I love you.” His brother kisses him again – with tongue – while his dry fingers rub enticingly against the periphery of his hole. “You are beautiful like this – desperate for anything and everything I may do to you.”

“Sadist!” Sherlock exclaims between his needy noises.

“You love it.” Mycroft whispers in his ear. “Answer this, little brother – do you get bored these days?”

Oh, fucking hell. His brother is right. He hasn’t been bored at all during the last two weeks – despite the lackluster caseload. He whines when his brother’s exploring digits retreats from fingering his rim.

.

.

It takes a while to get to his brother’s room. It seems that every few steps they take in the relatively deserted hallways, Mycroft would stop and tease him. By the time Mycroft is swiping his card against the reader next to his door – Sherlock is a needy wreck. His cock is hard and leaking; he has no doubt that his lips are swollen from his brother’s increasingly passionate kisses. It is a miracle that he hasn’t come at all – but then again, his brother had been careful.

“Strip and kneel, little brother.” Mycroft orders when the door closes behind them.

Sherlock divests his clothing, leaving them strewn on the floor, before kneeling on a rug in the small but cozy room. The rug is similar in style to the one that lies in Mycroft’s bedroom back at his house. There is a freshly made-up double-sized bed, a night table with an old-fashioned lamp that casts a gentle glow, a simple and sturdy desk, a bookshelf and a rug similar to the one in Mycroft’s bedroom. An intriguing-looking antique trunk sits on the floor at the foot of the bed. He wonders what is in the trunk, while his brother grabs a briefcase that had been laid out on the desk. Mycroft pulls out Sherlock’s collar from the case.

“Are you mine, brother?” Mycroft asks seriously, as he lays the collar in front of Sherlock on the rug. His brother proceeds to rummage through another drawer on the desk and pulls out another collar – this one old and worn – with no tag nor the beauty of his collar. This second collar is laid out beside his collar. “Think carefully. If I take you out in public, wearing my collar – it means something.”

“Are we negotiating our relationship?” Sherlock asks, suddenly taken aback at the shift.

“We should have negotiated from the beginning.” Mycroft says – he is kneeling in front of Sherlock – an equal position of negotiation. “My mistake.”

“You love me?” Sherlock knows his brother has said so many times over the last few days, but since this is a negotiation…

“Romantically and incestuously and more.” Mycroft says bluntly.

“You want me. As in you want to own me, brother. How much control are you planning to exert on me?” Sherlock wonders how useful the question he just asked is. Mycroft might want to own him sexually – but it is becoming increasingly clear that he will be affected by the consequences during every waking moment.

“What are you willing to relinquish control over?” Mycroft asks, “We can always renegotiate if it doesn’t work. But, I can tell you what I desire. But you have to tell me your needs too. It will be my job to fulfill them as well.”

“Please.” Sherlock leans forward to rest his head against his brother’s chest. “I don’t even know what I want. And this isn’t exactly fair either – brother – I am as horny as hell and in this state, I am liable to agree to everything and anything.”

Mycroft sits down on the rug.

“Should we continue as we are, brother? I had a few goals in mind: the first was to uncover the sensual creature that was hidden within you, the second was to introduce you to the kinks that I enjoy; and the third was to seduce you.”

“I knew it.” Sherlock says, “You deliberately corrupted me. As you said to me days ago. But I did write out all my desires in the papers.”

“You wanted to be my submissive.” Mycroft retrieves the relevant data. “You weren’t one hundred percent sure about what that entailed – but you wanted to try. To be honest, brother, I don’t even know what our relationship would look like. Every relationship is different. But these are the things I want to do – I want to love, hurt, mark, tease, humiliate, deny, pleasure and teach you. I want to care for you. But what I am most interested in, Sherlock, is your hard limits and what you want out of this.”

“Give me some examples of hard limits that you think might arise.” Sherlock cannot deduce what some of his brother’s darker fantasies are – although he can figure out a few.

“Would you, brother mine, drink my piss?”

Sherlock has tasted piss before; when he was much younger and discovered that physicians in the olden days used to test for diabetes in that way – but that had been limited to his own urine. It wasn’t the most pleasant choice of beverage – that was for certain.

“Reluctantly.” Sherlock answers truthfully.

“But not a no.” Mycroft asks for clarification.

“I wouldn’t call it a limit.” Sherlock says.

“Would you let me fist you?”

“Yes.”

“Mark you permanently?”

“As long as I have a say in it, big brother.”

“Of course, you will. Dress you up in female clothing?”

“Yes.” He has disguised himself as a woman in notable occasions, surely, he could do it for their mutual sexual enjoyment.

“Wear a cock cage for long periods of time?”

“I don’t know, brother – I barely lasted an hour last time.” Sherlock shudders.

“We will experiment. If anything becomes unbearable, you have a safeword, pet.” Mycroft says reassuringly. “I have hard limits as well, little brother – and I will tell them to you – asphyxiation play with a few exceptions, anything that will put you at an unreasonable risk of permanent and/or serious injury or death, scat play and age play. For our relationship – I will have a soft limit on sharing you with other Dominants. I’ve never set this limit for any of my other subs – but I won’t call it a hard limit because I don’t want to be selfish. I don’t want to limit your sexual exploration as a submissive…”

“Mycroft…” Sherlock has no desire to be used by other Dominants. “I only want you.”

“Just in case.” Mycroft says. “There are a lot of interesting scenes that can be done with more than two people. I’ve participated in them before.”

Sherlock continues to shake his head. The idea of other people involved in such intimate activities with him is terrifying.

He remembers the second part of his brother’s request. “What I want, brother, is for you to teach me how to please you. If you haven’t realized it – I do get off on that. I want you to expand my sexual horizons.” He then says honestly, “I worry that my inexperience will bore you, brother.”

“Your inexperience is a treasure.” Mycroft reaches over to caress his chin and cheek. “I am the only one who has ever touched you sexually, brother. I know the concept of virginity is outdated, but it means something to me. That you’ve never found sex to be a worthwhile thing until a week ago – with me. I get to teach you how to be a submissive without the nonsense of other Dominants messing up your education. And I will always remember the first blowjob you gave me – no experienced sub would have been able to replicate that performance.”

“It was sloppy and had no technique!” Sherlock exclaims.

“And it was glorious.” Mycroft says with an affectionate smile. “The first cock my little brother ever had in his mouth.”

“My big brother is a pervert.” Sherlock announces to an imaginary audience.

“And my little brother is completely shameless.” Mycroft pulls Sherlock towards him, to kiss him again.

“May I come, please?” Sherlock begs.

“No.” Mycroft says cruelly. “You’ve clearly made your choice, brother.”

Sherlock suppresses the urge to cry out in frustration, tries his best to ignore his aching prick and balls and picks up his collar. He presents it to Mycroft. His brother fastens the collar around his neck with the same reverence – and now obvious to Sherlock, adoration that he had done so the first time he had placed the collar around Sherlock’s neck. It touches him deeply.

“Shall I take you to the dungeon, pet?” Mycroft asks, “It’s Sunday – so it will be quite busy down there.”

“So, we can go to the office?” Sherlock finally remembers that he is here for another reason as well.

“Yes.” Mycroft says. There is mischief in his brother’s voice. “If you want. But Anthea has already remote accessed your target’s –“  

“Mycroft!” Sherlock looks completely shocked.

“She only got the information this morning, Sherlock. You should be proud of yourself – there’s enough data in that computer to sink an international trafficking ring. I just wanted more time to play with you.” Mycroft replies – looking directly at Sherlock – wanting him to see the honesty in his eyes. “I owe her an enormous favour.” His brother then shrugs, “It’s worth it.”


	9. Chapter 9

“Eat.” 

His brother presses a bite-sized ball of mozzarella against his lips. Sherlock parts his lips slightly and allows the freshly made cheese to roll onto his tongue. He isn’t hungry; Sherlock had some lunch today besides the glass of whiskey – which is already considered substantial for him. He whines a bit when Mycroft nudges another piece of high-quality prosciutto from the charcuterie board into his mouth but accepts it anyways. The food is delicious, he has to admit. He shakes his head when his brother reaches for another piece of food from the board.

“A grape, at least.” Mycroft offers a plump light purple fruit from his fingers.

Sherlock opens his mouth and closes them around the grape and two of his brother’s digits. He sucks at the fingers – which taste like a mixture of the food that Mycroft had been feeding him for the past minutes.

“Good boy.” His brother pulls his fingers out while sighing. “Your eating habits are deplorable at best.”

“Please tell me you do not have a feeding fetish.” Sherlock looks up at his brother from his kneeling position between Mycroft’s thighs after chewing and swallowing the juicy grape.

“I do not. I do, however, care about your health.” Mycroft replies, letting his fingers trace Sherlock’s prominent clavicles.

“My body mass index is within the normal range, sir.” Sherlock informs. He also knows that Mycroft has a point – he does not eat regularly and the only reason why he isn’t below the normal cutoff is because he has muscle. Somehow, whatever nourishment he does get sustains his musculature and brain. John has been trying ways to get him to eat over the years, and unfortunately, his flatmate is a deplorable cook at his best. And Sherlock will never admit that one reason he eschews calories is because he wants to maintain his model-like figure – as unhealthy as it is. And, he knows his brother finds him attractive, and he would like to keep it that way…

“Barely.” Mycroft shakes his head. “Come sit on my lap, brother.”

He climbs up to his brother’s lap, as he had done as a child. Mycroft’s arm immediately snakes possessively around his waist, while he curls up against his brother’s chest.

“I am going to take you to the dungeon later, naked.” Mycroft states. “People should see how stunning and shameless you are, pet. And be envious that I will be the only person permitted to touch you.”

“Why do you want me to gain weight then…?” Sherlock buries his face in his brother’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t look as attractive…”

“Sherlock…” Mycroft rests his palm against his abdomen, against his sculpted rectus abdominis. “You’ve always looked attractive to me. And I’ve seen you at your worst – such as in the throes of withdrawal, too many times. I’ve always worried that you are going to develop an eating disorder…” Sherlock could almost hear the ending to the sentence that his brother cut off: _on top of all your other problems_. He cringes a bit – what he remembers of his withdrawals was not pretty – and his brother had always been there – except for the one time he had been sent to a rehab.

But, wait – did Mycroft say that he had always found him attractive? And, that his brother is going to make him go naked in a public space? He isn’t exactly an exhibitionist – although those naughty suggestions from Master Set in the bar had gotten him aroused much earlier in the day.

“Naked?” Sherlock checks to make sure he hasn’t gone totally insane.

“Naked.” Mycroft’s hand travels upwards to his chest. “I do recall you prancing around Buckingham Palace partially naked quite a while ago, pet. You had no idea how much I longed to throw you over my lap and give you the hiding you deserve after pulling off that indecent bedsheet.” His brother smiles; it is clearly a fond memory. “Such a tantalizing tease and brat you were, boy.”

Sherlock arches his back with pleasure when Mycroft’s fingers tug and tease at one of his nipples. He could feel the bud stiffen under his brother’s attentions. He still remembers the day at Buckingham Palace and his bedsheet – he had worn it out of childish brattiness, to annoy his brother – but clearly it had unintended effects on Mycroft – who undoubtedly used the material as wank fodder. He squirms when his brother starts pinching, pulling and twisting his nipple, feeling every painful sensation go straight to his much-neglected cock.

“So beautifully responsive…” Mycroft finally releases the abused and reddened flesh before working on the other nipple.

“Did you want me then?” Sherlock asks breathily, before he could lose his mind to his brother’s torments.

“Oh, little brother –“ Mycroft’s words are all silk, “I’ve wanted you for ages.” Sherlock whimpers as his brother pinches his nipple roughly. “I still remember – I was twenty-four I believe. I had just came home for the summer. Mummy made me go find you, I recall. It was hot and humid – I can still remember the deplorable feeling of my shirt and trousers sticking to my sweat-soaked skin. I walked around the grounds, calling for you. And I found you eventually –“

“In the lake. It was so bloody hot that day, and the house had no AC back then.” Sherlock adds, letting out a moan with the increasing pressure his brother is applying to his stiffened nipple. “Oh god – it was you who was watching from the trees; I knew someone was there – but I didn’t realize it was a pervert! Ow!” Sherlock protests loudly when his brother spanks his backside hard enough to leave a reddened handprint on his bum.

He wasn’t wrong!

“Such lovely names you call your Dominant – pet.” Mycroft says with amusement dancing in his irises. His brother’s hand abandons his nipple and soothes the reddened skin of his arse. He continues the narration, “Indeed, it was me. I didn’t even recognize you when I saw you in the waters. I hadn’t seen you in a year at that point. Puberty is a magical process. What I did see at first glance was a wet, beautiful, alabaster-skinned creature rising from and dropping into the depths of the waters – an undine brought to life from fantasy. It took me more than a minute to realize that this was my baby brother. And I was mortified! And shocked by my physiological response to you. You have to realize, I had experimented with sex extensively during that period of my life – and no one had ever elicited such lust from my body. I stood rooted to the spot, and only fled when you finally emerged from the lake to dry off – naked, dripping, barely of age to consent – and just like that a new sin was born. Neither of us joined Mummy and Father for dinner – I believe – that night.”

Mycroft takes a breath, as he lets his fingers play with the cleft of Sherlock’s arse. Sherlock readjusts himself to allow his brother better access to his hole; Mycroft’s fingers massage the delicate skin around his hole and perineum.

“And what a brat you were that summer!” Mycroft returns to his story. “Moody, insolent, isolated – I am sure I can fill pages with such adjectives. I thought life was playing a cruel joke on me. Replacing the little brother that used to follow me adoringly – a constant beloved shadow, with a little brother that I couldn’t even have a civil conversation with, let alone a few words – yet haunted my dreams as an unattainable temptation – “

“So – you did wank to my sixteen-year-old self – Mycroft!” Sherlock exclaims, and whines when his brother sticks an unlubricated digit up his arse. The finger circles around his canal a few times before Mycroft removes it – the sensation feels strange.

“Yes, I did – when I was weak.” Mycroft admits, “I tried to stop. I got into BDSM shortly after that time, and it didn’t matter how many subs I played with afterwards – I imagined practicing my art on you.”

“Maybe things would have been different if you did give in and spanked me when I was younger.” Sherlock replies with a grin, “Spare the rod and spoil the child. And I wouldn’t have been bored…”

Mycroft looks aghast. “There was no way I could have done it then. It took me several years to reconcile with the fact that I wanted you. And, I was an inexperienced Dom – I wouldn’t have been able to handle your bratty ways back then.”

“But you have me now, big brother.” Sherlock replies; he tries, “And if you are feeling guilty; I would happily absolve you of your guilt for the easy price of letting me cum.”

Mycroft actually has the audacity to laugh. “Nice try, pet. But – no. This is exactly what I meant by subs trying to manipulate their Dominants into letting them come. Meanwhile, I am wondering whether or not you want to wear your cage when I take you to the dungeon.”

Is his brother crazy? Sherlock thinks grimly – he wouldn’t voluntarily wear his cage – especially after yesterday’s experience.  

“My cock is too hard for you to put the cage on.” Sherlock states instead of a firm denial.

Mycroft’s hand grasps his cock for the first time in who knows how long and strokes it; Sherlock’s hips instinctively buck. He needs more of that friction and ends up mindlessly fucking his brother’s hand. Just as he feels close – his brother removes his hand. He cries out in frustration while Mycroft holds his hips firmly – preventing him from rutting onto the nearest surface.

“Don’t bait me brother – I can easily lock that cock of yours in a smaller cage…” Mycroft has a smirk on his face. “And I do have a smaller one somewhere in this room…”

A smaller cage? His brother is a sadist… Is Mycroft going to deny him all night – Sherlock wonders. He has endured two days’ worth of teasing and edging; he is sure that he is reaching his own limits of denial. His balls are full, his prick aches, and he has an unbearable desire to come. But, he does not want to disobey his brother; he had agreed to try his best. His brother presses a gentle kiss on his cheek and says, “I think you can endure longer, brother – but if you really want to come, you do have a safeword. I won’t punish you ever for using your safeword – I promise.”

“Soon?” Sherlock asks.

“Yes.” Mycroft says, stroking Sherlock’s hair, “You’ve been so good. But, you’ve never been to a dungeon, brother mine – and you might come just because you are surrounded by erotic stimuli – especially since you’ve been edged for so long. How about this – if you wear your cage for me, I will let you come as many times as you want for the rest of the night – how does that sound, pet?”

That sounds amazing… Sherlock sighs, but he would have to endure a bit more torture. But at least he knows that Mycroft would put an end to it soon. He would have to trust that Mycroft knows his limits.

“Yes, brother.” Sherlock nods.

“Good boy.” Mycroft kisses him again.

.

.

The dungeon is an erotic symphony; there are the rhythmic and percussive smacks of subs being spanked and abused in a plethora of different ways, the slurpy and sucking noises of a female sub blowing her Dominant a few metres away from where Sherlock is kneeling at Mycroft’s feet, and all sorts of erotic sounds – from moans, sighs, frantic begging and orgasming subs coming from all corners of the large room. The majority of subs in the space are naked or partially naked, so Sherlock had lost the self-conscious feeling of being naked very quickly.

In addition to the collar and the cage, his brother had put on leather cuffs with golden D-rings on his wrists and ankles that matched his collar. Mycroft had ended up submerging Sherlock’s prick in cold water in order to get it into a more flaccid state for easy locking into his cage. Sherlock had squirmed and tried to escape the cruel treatment in the shower, but his brother had held him firmly and gave him a displeased look. Fortunately, no punishment had been threatened. A slow burn of arousal, just simply from being in the dungeon perfuses his body; his cock fills and pushes against the unyielding steel, constantly reminding Sherlock of the existence of his prick – well really, his cock belongs to his brother now. After all, it is Mycroft who decides when Sherlock is allowed touch his cock and orgasm, and Sherlock had to ask his brother for the permission to piss earlier when they had been in the shower – which still makes him flush red with embarrassment.

Mycroft’s fingers slide comfortingly into his hair, before pulling Sherlock’s head painfully up.

“Too much, pet?” Mycroft asks.

“A bit, yes – sir.” Sherlock says. His eyes turn slightly to catch a glimpse of the girl enthusiastically sucking her Dominant’s cock, before looking back into his brother’s eyes.

“You want a distraction, boy?” Mycroft gets the hint. “Get my cock out.”

Sherlock pulls the cushion he had been kneeling on and sinks down on his knees in front of his brother’s crotch. His fingers eagerly release Mycroft’s prick from the confines of his pants and trousers. He takes a moment to admire his brother’s member – a far more impressive specimen than the cock his fellow sub is fellating next to him.

“Do your thing – my nasty little cock slut.” Mycroft’s hand returns back into Sherlock’s hair.

Sherlock presses his lips against the slit of his brother’s cock – a kiss – while looking directly into Mycroft’s eyes. Unfathomable emotion seems to lurk in his brother’s irises at Sherlock’s gesture, and disappears when Sherlock slowly reveals his pink tongue from his mouth. He deliberately licks at his brother’s frenulum with all the time in the world. He could feel his brother’s hand pulling gently at his hair – a sign that Mycroft wants more. So, he engulfs the tip of his brother’s cock in his mouth, letting his tongue swirl slowly but with firm pressure – earning his first groan from Mycroft. He bobs his head, letting the cock move in and out of his mouth, while gradually taking in more and more of Mycroft’s cock. He is definitely more confident in his ability to give an excellent blowjob – and he wants to try something new – if he could get his brother’s prick deep enough down his throat.

“M! Fancy seeing you here – it’s been a while hasn’t it? May I sit?”

Sherlock almost gags when he hears that, but his brother seems to enjoy the vibrations from his throat.

“Yes, you may.” His brother grants the newcomer his permission. Or rather – two newcomers.

The Dominant – the speaker – sits down on the empty chair to the left of his brother – and the sub takes the cushion on the floor. Instead of kneeling, the sub sits – Sherlock deduces that the blond-haired boy had injured his knee at some point and cannot kneel comfortably. The sub looks to be about his age, has tattoos of oriental mythological imagery all over his body, with a T and a S inked across his heart – an established couple – Sherlock could see. A spiked collar with a tag sits on the boy’s neck. He looks enviously at the lack of cock cage on the sub’s cock – which is adorned with a Prince Albert. He feels his brother tug at his hair with impatience, and he returns to his original objective of sucking his brother’s prick.

“You always have the prettiest of cock-warmers – M.” The Dominant says.

“I do, don’t I – T?” Mycroft sounds proud.

Sherlock flushes at being called a cock-warmer. He has never felt so objectified in his entire life – his sole calling in life being to keep his brother’s prick warm. But some jealousy flares beneath his sternum – T is apparently accustomed to seeing Mycroft being sucked by some beautiful subs. And, he can’t help thinking about all those who came before him – all those who had the privilege of blowing his brother.

“Ah, he flushes so beautifully.” T remarks.

“He is deliciously responsive. A proper slut.” His brother’s hand continues to caress his scalp, while Sherlock continues to work on getting Mycroft’s prick deeper into his throat.

“Are you training him for somebody, M?” T asks, leaning over to look more closely at Sherlock. “He’s not wearing your usual training collar. Or, did you borrow a sub for a day?”

“Yes, I am training him for someone –“

Sherlock could feel his heart beat fast in his chest. No, he would not submit for anyone else besides his big brother. And it feels strange – not to be able to participate in a conversation that is about him. Mycroft had told him the rules of the club for subs – they weren’t allowed to speak unless permitted by their Dominant.

“Myself.” Mycroft finishes, much to Sherlock’s relief.

T is surprised. “Oh my god. You collared him. After saying you would never collar anyone – M. You said –“

“I didn’t realize collaring who I wanted was an option.” Mycroft interjects – the words coming out in one quick breath as Sherlock has him deep in his throat. His brother’s cock is finally deep enough for Sherlock to stick his tongue out and lap at Mycroft’s balls. His jaw is starting to ache, but he endures – and feels a sense of victory when his brother lets out a moan of unrestrained pleasure. Mycroft sighs when Sherlock lets his prick slip out again.

“Do you share?” T asks.

Sherlock shakes his head as aggressively as he could with his brother’s glans in his mouth.

“Sorry T, I don’t.” Mycroft says while admonishing Sherlock with a look – that he interprets as do not get involved in this conversation. “Not just my sub’s limits, but mine as well.”

At this point, Sherlock focuses on making his brother cum. He swirls his tongue around his brother’s cock; he sucks and hums around the shaft – hollowing his cheeks. Mycroft tugs his hair hard – and Sherlock finds his mouth flooded with cum. He almost gags, manages to swallow a decent amount, but the rest drips down his mouth. Mycroft’s fingers reach down and rubs the fluids affectionately into Sherlock’s skin.

“Your pet needs practice with swallowing.” T remarks rather unnecessarily – seemingly surprised at Mycroft’s lenience, “I’ve seen you scold subs for wasting your cum.”

Sherlock finds himself flushing deeper and somewhat mortified at someone else criticizing his technique. He had tried his best, and his brother had never reprimanded him ever over spilling cum. Mycroft senses his distress and caresses his face, his eyes saying – don’t let this idiot get to you. His brother then says, “I am perfectly aware of what my sub needs to work on, T –  thanks.” Mycroft then looks at Sherlock, “Do you want to play, pet? Let me show you off a bit – hm?”

Some of Sherlock’s insecurity must have shown on his face, because Mycroft turns to T again looking murderously annoyed. He says dangerously, “Just because I do not offer my sub to you for your entertainment does not mean you get to undermine the work I’ve put into my sub’s training.  I have never once breathed a word about your own sub’s deficits, unless you asked explicitly for my opinion.”

The Dominant holds up his arms in a placating manner, before Mycroft pulls out a leash and clips it onto one of the D-rings on Sherlock’s collar. “Let’s go, boy.”

.

.

“I am sorry for that – pet.” Mycroft whispers in his ear as he suspends his wrists above shoulder level by hooking the D-rings onto an elaborate rope system connected to the ceiling and two walls. “T is annoyed because we used to share and train subs together. We originally shared a mentor when we started learning how to be Dominants. He’s willing to share his sub with our other fellow Dominants, but I won’t share you unless you desperately want to be shared.”

“Why were you so mad?” Sherlock asks quietly.

“Because – you were unsure of yourself – my lovely boy. I want you to be eager, shameless, naughty, desperate – secure in your identity as a sensual creature – for my pleasure, only. For anyone else that gets to witness you – it is a privilege.”

“I do not wish to disappoint you in public.” Sherlock says as Mycroft hooks two more ropes to his collar.

“You will not.” Mycroft says firmly, “You have been my sub for two weeks. You have some accomplishments that some Dominants can only dream of for their subs.”

His brother bends down to attach a short rope between the D-rings of his ankle cuffs.

Sherlock swallows when he watches his brother pick a sterilized flogger off the wall. Mycroft rips open the packaging and pulls the implement out. Besides his brother’s hand and riding crop, Sherlock has never experienced a flogger. Mycroft hangs the flogger on a rope nearby for easy reach. Sherlock’s eyes fall on a table nearby, where his brother had set down two candles – one black and one purple. There is also a pot filled with molten wax set over a portable heater with a thermometer in it – and a paint brush. Sherlock tests the restraints – he can move his arms slightly from their bent position, and he grabs onto the ropes for extra support.

“For disclosure, pet –“ Mycroft whispers in his ear, “I am going to paint the letter ‘M’ on the small of your back with wax that is slightly hotter than what we usually use for play. When it peels, there should be a mark that should last hopefully longer than a week. What do you think of that?”

“I want it.” Sherlock replies – knowing his brother is going to inflict a first-degree burn on him. Some part of him wishes it was permanent. For logical reasons, Sherlock cannot go around wearing his collar in his day-to-day life, and he would love reminders of his brother’s possessive and sometimes cruel love on his body – especially for days that he does not get to see Mycroft.

“Good.” Mycroft says – there’s a feral possessiveness that gleams from his brother’s eyes. “I want it too.” Sherlock wonders if his brother is referring to his thought of a permanent mark – sometimes it feels as if Mycroft can read his mind. His brother then asks, “Blindfold?”

“Yes, please.” Sherlock does not want to see the small crowd that has gathered around the corner of the dungeon they are currently occupying – he feels like a piece of prime meat put out on display. Both the other two Dominants – T and Set, along with their subs are sitting near one of the walls.

His brother blindfolds him with something soft, and Sherlock closes his eyes, relying on his other senses. With his eyes closed, he feels a sense of heightened anticipation – his ears strain to listen for Mycroft’s footsteps. He is surprised to feel something sticky being placed on his lower back – but remembering what Mycroft had told him – Sherlock deduces that Mycroft is sticking a stencil on his back.

“Safeword, boy?” Mycroft’s voice carries to his ears.

“Redbeard.” Sherlock says.

He gasps when the first drop of wax hits the skin over his scapula; his cock swells a bit in confinement, causing the steel to dig painfully in his flesh.

“Alright?” His brother stops to check.

“Hurt me, mark me!” Sherlock chants his new mantra.

“Of course.” Mycroft presses a tender kiss on the nape of his neck, before pouring more drops of wax on his other scapula. With every drop, Sherlock finds himself lost in a mixture of pain and pleasure, with some part his brain hyper-cognizant of the plight of his caged prick attempting to become erect. He remembers yelping when his brother drops a generous amount of wax over each one of his sensitive nipples – which were still throbbing from the pinching, pulling and twisting that Mycroft had inflicted upon them earlier in the afternoon. His brother stops every once in a while, to kiss and/or caress him or switch candles.

“How gorgeous you look in black and purple. If only if you could see what I see, pet.” Mycroft says just as he dribbles a minuscule amount of wax onto to his umbilicus – Sherlock almost screams in shock – totally not expecting the location nor the magnitude of intensity.

And then, there is the sensation of the bristles of a paintbrush brushing lightly against the sensitive skin of his back – it is Mycroft’s non-verbal way of warning him about what is to come next. When the burning hot wax gets painted generously onto his skin, it is an absolute delicious agony. He breathes slowly through the pain – determined to bear it well for Mycroft; he would be a pain slut worthy of his brother – worthy of the temporary mark of ownership that Mycroft has burned onto his back.

Sherlock is reminded of the audience when people actually clap after his brother finishes.

“So perfect for me…” Mycroft actually croons in his ear. “You take pain so beautifully, brother mine…” It feels so naughty – Mycroft verbally acknowledging their fraternity in public under these incestuous scenes. Sherlock knows no one in their audience can hear them, over all the noises in the dungeon – but still.

And then, his brother shifts over to give him a very non-brotherly kiss that lasts quite long – but still too short for Sherlock’s liking.

“Now let’s get the wax off, darling boy. And then we can go deal with your reward.” Mycroft lets the leather tails of his flogger rest on Sherlock’s shoulder for a moment, before proceeding to whip the dried wax off in a quick and efficient fashion.


	10. Chapter 10

“Myc –“

His brother’s name dies in his throat when a sharp steel edge is suddenly pressed against his left external jugular. The blade smells pungently of antiseptic – mostly likely isopropyl alcohol. His brother’s purple nitrile gloved hand holds the knife steady – while Sherlock does not dare breathe too deeply. Mycroft’s weight rests lightly on his back, pinning him against the mattress of the bed. The blade lightly brushes against his neck – a featherlight pressure, and the danger of it all arouses him incredibly – would his brother cut him? Let him bleed? His blood rushes down – straight into his cock, which engorges against the confines of more steel – reminding him that he was prey long caught by his Dominant.

“Little brother, I still remember how aroused you were when you thought I had a knife against your lovely throat.” Mycroft whispers, while continuing to vary the pressure and position of the blade. “But I am not here to cut you… Let’s see to your burn.”

Most of the candle wax had been flogged off his person – but the wax that had been used to mark him was still there. The pressure of the knife disappears from his neck. Sherlock can smell Mycroft sterilizing the blade again, and he whimpers in pain when he feels Mycroft pry the knife edge betwixt the thick layer of wax and his too-sensitive burned skin; his brother carefully peels and lifts the wax from his person while Sherlock buries his face in the bedsheets to muffle his noises, barely noticing Mycroft’s slightly laboured breathing.

“If only I had a camera, little brother – it’s gorgeous.” His brother says.

“I want to see!” Sherlock demands.

His brother stands up and brings a mirror from somewhere. Sherlock turns his head slightly to see the reflection of his back in the glass – seeing the raw, bright red ‘M’ on the small of his back – a stark contrast from its pale surroundings. His eyes then look up at his brother, and his own breath catches at the depth of emotion on Mycroft’s face; his brother had removed the mask upon their return to the rooms. Mycroft puts down the mirror, changes his gloves and opens a packet containing a chlorohexidine wipe. Sherlock flinches when the antiseptic touches his abused flesh and gets rubbed generously over the burn. Surprisingly his brother spends some time carefully applying a gauze bandage; Sherlock had assumed that Mycroft had wanted his mark of ownership in view.

“I will see it when it heals a bit. I would be horribly remiss if my mark becomes infected, brother mine.” Mycroft answers, “You can take it off tomorrow, when you won’t be lying on your back.”

“Can you free my cock?” Sherlock finds himself asking. “Please?”

Mycroft climbs onto the bed and gestures for Sherlock to come. He sprawls in his brother’s lap, while Mycroft remarks fondly, “If I had known how well-mannered you could be with your naughty little cock locked up, I would have done it ages ago.”

Sherlock whines when Mycroft’s hand cups around his caged prick and strokes.

“Brother… you promised.” Sherlock gives Mycroft his best kicked-puppy look.

“I said I would let you come today.” Mycroft says darkly – mischief glimmers in his eyes. “Not when I would unlock you...” His brother lets go of his prick, and places Sherlock’s hand over the cage. “I want you to touch yourself for me, pet – like how you normally would.”

“Myc –“ Sherlock begins to protest.

“Now, pet.” The words are delivered quietly, but Sherlock’s hand immediately closes around his own caged organ and begins to stroke in response to the icy authority contained within. His brother is a very cruel man – Sherlock thinks – as his prick attempts to become erect for the umpteenth time again. He knows that he is near the end of his ability to bear the combination of denial and pain that he has suffered at the hands of his Dominant. Something wet streaks down his cheek, and he knows he is weeping – of exhaustion, of frustration, of pain. His burnt back stings, the flesh that had been adorned with candle wax and flogged is sensitive, and there is an incredible pressure in his pelvis and balls dying to be released. And he is absolutely exhausted. This is what it is like to be Mycroft’s submissive – his brother will keep pushing at his limits – and he would submit at his Dominant’s pleasure. Just as he thinks about uttering his safeword for the first time, he feels Mycroft’s hand clasp his – stopping his futile and agonizing masturbation. His brother kisses him and wipes some of the tears off his face with the other. “You have been so good for me. My beautiful boy… Mine to tame and possess and to care for. How would you like to come?”

There is absolutely no way he would survive penetrative sex right now. Sherlock knows. He says instead, quietly, “Blow me, please.”

Sherlock almost cries when Mycroft makes a motion to suck at his caged cock. With a teasing smile, his brother finally fishes out the key and unlocks his cage. When the hardware is finally removed, Mycroft immediately engulfs Sherlock’s sensitive and much-abused cock into his deliciously warm mouth and applies a perfect amount of suction. Much to his embarrassment, Sherlock comes ridiculously quickly and without warning – an unpredictable volcanic eruption. Mycroft takes his seed without spilling a drop.

He sinks bonelessly into the mattress, his mind completely blank. It had felt so good to spill his cum into his brother’s mouth. He feels Mycroft crawl over and press his mouth against his. His brother parts his lips slightly, and Sherlock realizes that Mycroft is feeding his own cum back to him. It is a slightly messy process; some of the mixture of saliva and cum ends up dripping between them. The process evolves into sticky long and languid kisses. His brother ends up wrapping his arms possessively around his torso. Sherlock turns his head and looks toward Mycroft’s cock tenting in his trousers.

“Do not worry about me, pet. It’s about you.” Mycroft gently reaches over to stroke Sherlock’s hair, letting the soft strands run through his fingers. “Let me look after you. We have played for a long while – you have never submitted to me for so long. How do you feel?”

Sherlock could barely speak. He looks imploringly at his brother, who simply keeps touching him in a comforting manner. “Tell me when you can.” Mycroft says, “Rest.”

He readjusts his position, so he could snuggle up with his brother. He wants to ask Mycroft if he does this with all his previous subs – this gentle and affectionate aftercare. One part of his mind says no – his brother had never loved anyone besides him, but the jealous and irrational part of him doesn’t know for certain. He knows that at this point, that he is Mycroft’s – but does Mycroft belong to him? Or is it too much for a sub to expect monogamy from a Dominant? Or too soon? It’s hardly been more than two weeks since this unusual arrangement had begun. But, it feels like a lifetime ago; how deep he has fallen! He still remembers T’s insinuation that he was too inexperienced of a sub for someone like his brother. Sherlock isn’t stupid – he could deduce that T did not think Mycroft made the right decision in collaring him.

“You are thinking.” Mycroft gently tugs at his hair shafts. “Brother mine…” Even in the gentlest tones, Sherlock can hear an undercurrent of possessiveness.

Sherlock manages to doze off, his head resting in his brother’s lap.

.

.

** A week later: **

“Are you alright, Sherlock?” John asks as they exit the loo at Scotland Yard.

“Never better! Why do you ask?” Sherlock looks at his flatmate with suspicion.

“I… uh… didn’t realize you pissed sitting down…” John remarks delicately.

Out of all the bloody times for John to be observant – and he picks now? Sherlock muses darkly in his mind. No, he couldn’t whip out his cock and pee in the urinal like he usually does right now.

Mycroft had sent him a text earlier.

_Lestrade is going to text you with a case later this evening, brother. Wear your cage. MH_

_I will reward you for your obedience, pet. MH_

Sherlock hasn’t seen his brother in a week since that day at the club. They had kept in touch with texts; Mycroft had given him a lot of tasks to do. He had written out fantasies, masturbated, put toys up his arse and etcetera. And of course, his brother had denied him every time he had asked to come – a frustratingly predictable outcome.

Anticipating Lestrade’s call, Sherlock had spent an awkward amount of time in the shower trying to figure out how to put the cage on himself. He wants the reward and to show Mycroft that he would be serious about his training going forward. In addition, Sherlock had carefully worked a decent sized plug up his arse – just in case.

So, Sherlock had pissed sitting down in the cubicle – it is simpler, less messy and of course – he couldn’t show John the metal around his member. It would undoubtedly bring up some questions that Sherlock had no interest in answering.

Fortunately, John is rather simple minded.

Sherlock replies, “It’s for an experiment, John.”

“Ah!” John nods, satisfied with Sherlock’s answer for the time being.

.

.

Later in the evening, John, Lestrade and himself are in the evidence room – discussing some of the salient points of their case – including the suspiciously dead Labrador retriever that had been found in one of the suspect’s houses. There is something important about the latter detail, but Sherlock could not figure out what. He leans forward against the counter, trying to avoid moving – the plug in his arse keeps rubbing against a certain delectable spot, causing his prick to behave in a predictable manner. It is all so very distracting. He should have picked a different toy.

Footsteps from outside the room cause all three to stop talking and look towards the door. Sherlock almost collapses when he sees his brother standing at the doorway, immaculate as ever in his three-piece suit. Mycroft carries his umbrella in one hand, and an important looking briefcase in the other. Sherlock avoids looking directly at his brother; it is so strange – before last Sunday, he had never considered the attractiveness of his brother – but now he cannot unsee how hot Mycroft is. Some primitive part of him wants to rip the suit off his brother – would Mycroft ever allow him to do that? If his prick wasn’t dripping precum previously – it sure is now.

It is John who breaks the silence. “Mycroft, what can we do for you?”

“I need to speak with my brother.” Mycroft replies neutrally.

If it were not for the cage around his cock, the plug in his arse or the ‘M’ burned onto the small of his back, this scene feels exactly like the innumerable encounters that Sherlock had with his brother before the start of their unorthodox relationship.

“I am busy.” Sherlock manages curtly, while craning his head to examine a photograph which had already been captured in his mind.

“It is a matter of national importance.” His brother persists.

“Everything you have, brother, is of national importance.” Sherlock retorts, infusing some of his brattiness into his syllables.

John shoots a warning look at him – a reminder of the last encounter where the three of them had been in a room together last. It had ended up in Sherlock’s punishment – and that is not where Sherlock wanted to end up tonight.

“Fine…” Sherlock sighs reluctantly, “Let’s talk, brother.”

“Detective Inspector, is there a room where I can converse privately with my brother?” Mycroft turns his attention to Lestrade. “Where we will not be disturbed?”

The last words are said with a special tone that sends chills down Sherlock’s spine. Of course, it is completely wasted on the other two oblivious men, but Sherlock knows for sure now that Mycroft isn’t here to talk about an actual case.

“Um… Sure – take my office.” Lestrade says while taking a sip of his coffee. “There really shouldn’t be anyone up on that floor at this hour.”

.

.

“Little brother, have you been a good boy?”

His brother asks after the door of Lestrade’s office closes behind them. Sherlock has wandered deeper into the room, near Lestrade’s desk. Mycroft follows closely behind, and suddenly pins Sherlock onto the surface of Lestrade’s desk.

“I thought this was a matter of national importance?” Sherlock manages weakly.

“Pet, you are so fond of referring to me as the British Government.” Mycroft’s hand is already busy unbuckling Sherlock’s belt. “And doing an inspection of my property would therefore be classified as a matter of national importance.” His brother unzips his fly and slips his hand beneath his pants and trousers.

Sherlock whimpers when Mycroft touches his prick, frigging it with lazy strokes. His ever-responsive cock hardens immediately, pressing painfully against the steel bars. Suddenly, his brother’s hand abandons his caged cock, brushes lightly against his perineum and touches the plug up his arse. “Hm… and what do we have here, brother mine?” Sherlock whines loudly when Mycroft flicks the base of the toy, causing the plug to shift in him. “Are you sure that you are a consulting detective, pet? You look more like a slut. Does the good Detective Inspector know that you walk around with your hole stretched wide open like this?”

Sherlock flushes a deep shade of red. He can feel the warmth of the blood in his cheeks radiating off his skin. “No, sir.” He replies, attempting to bury his face into Lestrade’s desk.

His brother tugs at the plug by its base and pulls it out. It is still glistening with lubricant. Sherlock whines at the sudden emptiness. Mycroft sets the plug aside and fingers Sherlock’s lube-slicked hole with two fingers. “Feeling empty, are we? That was a decent sized plug I pulled out of your hole, pet.”

“It took me a while to get it in.” Sherlock admits.

“I can imagine.” Mycroft sounds pleased. “But you do not need to push yourself so hard – I don’t want you to damage your pretty little hole either – although it’s not so little anymore – is it – brother?”

“No, sir.” Sherlock sighs and moans when his brother adds a third digit and starts thrusting into his hole, rubbing nicely at his insides. He wiggles his arse to fuck himself further on his brother’s fingers. He can feel his prick leak.

“Can you be quiet, pet?” Mycroft asks sternly, “Or are you going to be a noisy little slut?”

His brother slips a fourth finger slowly into his hole, and then scissors – stretching his hole beyond what his plug had done. Sherlock couldn’t help but to gasp and whimper loudly at the fullness in his arse.

“Any louder, slut – and your doctor and Detective Inspector might hear you.” Mycroft whispers, “Maybe they will come up and investigate, brother. And they will see what a shameless tart you are, fucking yourself on my fingers – begging for something else besides my digits to fill your needy and slutty hole.”

Sherlock lets out a whiny noise from his throat, as his brother continues to fuck him with his fingers.

“And maybe,” His brother’s voice grows darker and silkier, “They might both be generous enough to fill your needs – hm? With a slutty hole like yours, one of their cocks wouldn’t be enough – both would be needed – what do you think -pet?”

If Sherlock thought his face had been red before – it must be flaming now. He moans again when he feels his brother tease his sensitive rim with his thumb – the last digit that has not yet penetrated his hole. His treacherous cock is so erect; the metal bars have probably imprinted their pattern cruelly on the delicate flesh. Oh god, did his brother really suggest that? For John and Lestrade to both come up here and fuck him together – while his brother watches in the background? Is it because his arse could really take that much – or is his brother referring to the fact that John and Gavin are not the most endowed? To put it politely.

Mycroft slaps his arse with his other hand. The sound is surprisingly loud and is accompanied by a louder yelp.

“I believe I asked you a question, slut.” Mycroft’s voice is stern.

“Yes, sir.” Sherlock lets the syllables slip – absolutely mortified.

“Yes, sir – what?” Mycroft presses onwards and lets the tip of his thumb slip slightly into Sherlock’s already filled hole.

Sherlock has never felt so full in his life.

“I would need both their cocks to satisfy me…” Sherlock wants to disappear in embarrassment.

“And why is that?” Mycroft is merciless in his questioning.

“Because my Dominant has an enormous cock, sir.” Sherlock replies – feeling rather proud of that answer.

“And just who is your Dominant, pretty boy?” Mycroft actually leans down to whisper the question in his ear.

“You!” Sherlock exclaims; he then begs, “I want your cock – please fuck me. I’ve been so good.”

“Like I said, brother – so much politer with the cage.” Mycroft observes. “Well, I can’t see why I shouldn’t fuck you, pet.” His brother removes his fingers from his hole, and before Sherlock could feel the hateful sense of emptiness, Mycroft thrusts directly into his hole. Sherlock starts making uncontrollable noises every time his brother’s cock brushes certain spots and soon he feels a piece of cloth being forced into his mouth – a handkerchief – to gag him. His brother actually stops a minute later and asks Sherlock for the key to his cage – and to Sherlock’s happiness, unlocks the cage from his cock.

“You can come today, brother.” Mycroft says; the words are the most beautiful words that Sherlock has heard all week.

Unable to make words, Sherlock grunts his agreement. His brother also places a condom on Sherlock’s cock – and Sherlock can understand that the purpose was to make cleanup easier – just in case Lestrade ever decides to use a blacklight in his office or something in the future.

Mycroft then pulls Sherlock’s shirt up, so that he could admire the reddened ‘M’ on Sherlock’s skin. “It is healing so nicely – little brother.” His brother bends down and bestows a gentle kiss on the injured skin.

Mycroft resumes fucking him against Lestrade’s desk, and it feels so damn good. He feels the heat build from his groin and just as he reaches the peak, his brother’s hand reaches for his cock, and frigs it the way Sherlock prefers, and he spills his seed and collapses bonelessly on Lestrade’s desk. His brother comes shortly after, ejaculating his cum into Sherlock’s well-used hole and falls gently on him. Sherlock pulls the gag from his mouth and they both rest panting for a few minutes. He then turns his head slightly and asks his brother wordlessly for a kiss – which Mycroft happily obliges.

Afterwards they clean up thoroughly – Mycroft lubricates the anal plug and the interior of the cock cage and places the toys back where he found them on Sherlock’s body. Sherlock had whined about the cage, but Mycroft had given him a long-suffering look and he had submitted to having his cock locked back up with minimal fuss.

Later, after Sherlock returns back to the evidence room, with John and Lestrade none the wiser about the true nature of the matter of national importance, and Mycroft had left – he realizes that his brother had taken the key to his cage with him.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've started writing a bit from Mycroft's POV.   
> Enjoy :)

Mycroft taps his fingers restlessly against the fine wool of his trousers as the car decelerates and pulls towards the curb. He does not know what to expect; an urgent diplomatic emergency had called him out of the country for a day, and he had come directly from Heathrow. The door opens automatically. His little brother looks in – radiating a complicated mixture of relief, annoyance and desperation.

Sherlock hesitates – as if trying to rein control of his impulses.

“Well, are you just going to stand there all day, brother?” Mycroft asks, keeping his tone neutral.

His brother gracefully climbs in. When the door shuts behind him, Mycroft watches with fond amusement as Sherlock’s body language abruptly changes. Without hesitation, his little brother scurries towards him and kneels before him. Mycroft’s fingers reflexively find themselves in his brother’s hair, combing through the soft silky curls. Sherlock’s eyes dart between his crotch and thigh, before his brother settles for nuzzling his face against his inner thigh.

Filthy boy – Mycroft thinks with satisfaction – already desperate for cock. And not for just any cock – his. He has had many subs over the years kneel before him like this; he had even fantasized about what kind of sub his brother might have been – but he had never quite managed to imagine the glorious reality of actually owning his brother like this.

And it would only get better with additional training.

Nevertheless, he owes his brother an apology. No diplomatic incident is a valid excuse for ignoring his sub’s texts for an entire day. His job has been a problem in his Dom/sub relationships for years, and it will likely continue to be. And, if he had foreseen this, he wouldn’t have taken the key to the cage – he had only intended to torment his brother for a day – not three. Of course, Anthea has a spare, but Sherlock does not know that. Nor does his brother know that Anthea herself is a Dominant who enjoys tormenting subs in her downtime.

Mycroft tugs Sherlock’s hair up sharply, forcing his brother to look up, “Brother mine, I must apologize. It was not my intention to ignore you.”

“I thought you might have forgotten…” Sherlock’s head wants to incline downwards, but Mycroft maintains his grip.

“Never.” Mycroft says with utmost seriousness. “I wasn’t lying when I said I worry about you constantly, pet.”

“I think about you, constantly.” His brother admits when Mycroft finally lets his hair go. “Even when I was finishing Lestrade’s case yesterday – the thought of you was never more than a few synapses away. I want –“ Sherlock trails off, looking somewhat shy.

They need to work on that – his brother’s shyness and embarrassment about his baser needs. Of course, it is easy to train a submissive how to perform the skills to please a Dominant – almost any fool can do that – but other Dominants usually come to Mycroft these days for help in regard to shaping or correcting behaviours of their subs. His younger self had been known as a ‘tough’ Dom – a rigid and a cold authoritative one – known for breaking in difficult subs. But, that is not what his brother needs in a Dominant, contrary to what many would have thought – nor does Mycroft want a broken-in sub. Too many Dominants do, unfortunately.

“What do you want, pet?” Mycroft encourages, “I can guess, but I want you to tell me.”

“I want you to hurt me.” Sherlock says quietly, “And then I want to please you – and then I would like to come if it pleases you.”

“Care to be more specific, boy?” Mycroft is surprised that Sherlock has not immediately demanded his release from the cage, considering how much he had disliked being caged. “How should I hurt you?”

“That is your prerogative, Mas – brother,”  Sherlock replies, his eyes respectfully downcast.

Now this is interesting… His brother had almost called him Master. And there seems to be a shift in his brother’s thinking as well. What happened to the boy that had been straight out demanding orgasms from him last week?

“I talked to someone.” Sherlock admits, seeming to read Mycroft’s thoughts. “I thought… I thought…” His brother looks distressed. “That you weren’t happy with me. So, I asked for advice…”

“Who did you ask for advice?” Mycroft is beginning to feel like a terrible Dominant – not to mention, lover. He knew about Sherlock’s insecurities; of course, made worse when his stupid fellow Dominant T had opened his mouth. He lets his hand slide out from his brother’s hair, to affectionately caress the angles of his face. Sherlock reflexively leans into his touch.

“You won’t like it.” Sherlock warns.

Mycroft groans. There is only one other Dominant that Sherlock knows.

The one that had refused to die.

“I thought she was in America.” Mycroft says casually.

“Oh, she is – I just texted.” Sherlock reaches in his pocket for his phone. He hands it over to Mycroft.

“Brother mine, I trust you. I don’t need to see your texts with Ms. Adler.” Mycroft is appalled.

“It’s easier than me explaining.” Sherlock says, as Mycroft unlocks the phone.

_Any advice for keeping a Dominant? SH_

_Why, Sherlock! I always knew you were a sub! IA_

_I am jealous! IA_

_You’d look so pretty on your knees, all marked, collared and debauched! IA_

Mycroft actually growls internally; the very thought that someone else would have the impertinence to imagine his sub like that.  

_Did you get offered your Dominant’s collar? IA_

_I wear it every time I see him. SH_

_So, serious stuff! IA_

_He’s given me the cold shoulder – not replying to my texts. He usually replies within an hour. SH_

_Did you do something to displease him? IA_

_Maybe? SH_

_Different Dominants have different ideas regarding how a sub should behave. But in general, you should remember that – especially being the collared boy you are – that you serve at the pleasure of your Dominant. Your pleasure is his pleasure. The reverse is true as well. Kate forgets at times – but that’s when I get to punish her! IA_

_When I am in London next – maybe your Dominant would let me play with you! IA_

Over my dead body! Mycroft thinks… He would kill her himself and make sure that she stays dead.

_I highly doubt it. He is very possessive. SH_

_Smart man! I wouldn’t let me either if I was him! IA_

“I realized, brother, that I’ve been focusing too much on my own pleasure.” Sherlock says, “It’s like what you said last week – all I think about is my next orgasm.”

“It is an intentional side-effect of what I do to you, brother.” Mycroft explains, “I want you horny and desperate. I want you to beg for more. I want you to be a shameless creature, open to any sort of filth within our limits without any reservations. And of course, you are mine – pet. I decide upon your pleasure. And there are many things we will work on together. And next time, Sherlock – if there is anything you are worried about – please talk to me – although yesterday was an anomaly.”

The red light of the intercom illuminates. Mycroft presses a button and says, “Yes, Raymond – please drop me home.”

“And pet, you do not need advice on how to keep a Dominant. I intend to keep you for as long as you will allow me to.” Mycroft runs his hand through Sherlock’s hair again. “I did collar you, after all.”

.

.

Mycroft is kissing him while pinning him against the bedroom wall.

“Pet, when you are at my house, I want you naked – unless if we have visitors. I want access to your body at all times – understand?”

“Yes, Mycroft.” Sherlock sighs when his brother caresses his sides – the sensitive skin covering his ribcage. There is a gentle current of arousal that flows through his body, and he can feel his cock pushing uncomfortably against his cage as well as the ring crushing his balls slightly.

But, it isn’t as bad as he used to remember it being.

“You’ve been a good boy – haven’t you?” Mycroft purrs in his ear.

Fuck, Sherlock is sure that he could probably get off on his brother’s voice alone minus the cage.

“A naughty one.” Sherlock smirks and then proceeds to moan loudly when his brother nibbles against a certain spot on his neck.

“Shall I hurt you, brother mine?” Mycroft attacks another sensitive spot, causing Sherlock to tremble in pleasure.

“Yes, please.” Sherlock replies eagerly.

“I am going to introduce you to some more of my implements.” Mycroft says, “I’ve spanked you with my bare hand, flogged you with a flogger and cropped you with a riding crop – but there is more. I want you to bend over, with your hands against the wall, pet.”

His brother untangles himself from him and Sherlock quickly does as his brother commands.

.

.

Mycroft surveys the selection of implements he has in a trunk next to his desk. There are lots of fond memories attached to each tool, but he wants to make new ones with his brother. And of course, he would buy new ones as well – considering how much of a pain slut Sherlock is. His fingers lightly touch his belt – another tempting option. Ultimately, Mycroft picks up the rattan cane from the trunk – not the thinnest cane he owns but it should still give his pet something to think about.

God, how decadent his brother looks, bent over like this – his muscles working to present his lovely plush arse in the air. The pièce de résistance of the scene is the fading red ‘M’ located on the small of his brother’s back.

Beautiful.

Maybe one day they would make such a mark permanent – a brand perhaps.

He gives the cane a few swishes, testing old muscle memory that hasn’t been used in a while. 

“A cane, brother?” Sherlock deduces, “How very old school of you…”

“Shush, pet.” Mycroft replies – more playfully than with bite, “Another unnecessary comment out of you, and I will make you get out the old school uniform and we can reminisce about the old days.”

“Pervert…” Sherlock mutters.

“What is that, boy? Would you care to repeat that? Hm?” Mycroft rests the cane on one generous globe of his brother’s arse. He runs the wood against the skin, allows the cane to dip into the cleft and even smacks it lightly a few times against his brother’s scrotum. He grins when he sees Sherlock visibly shiver. “I do believe I asked you a question, pet. In the interests of your bottom, I do not think you want this to turn into a punishment.”

“I said, pervert.” His brother says with a delicious amount of insolence.

“Well, you aren’t wrong.” Mycroft remarks rather casually. He has long come to terms with his perverse side. “But for that, boy – you are going to count. Do you understand?”

“Yes, brother.” Sherlock actually gives his bottom an insolent wiggle.

What a tart!

_Swish… crack!_

.

.

“One!” Sherlock manages before he feels the eruption of agony spread across his cheek. He could feel his legs sway slightly, and his palms pushing slightly harder against the wall for support. Maybe –

_Tap. Swi-crack!_

“Two! Ow!” Sherlock cries out – feeling the linear sting of pain on his opposite cheek. Maybe, his brother did not need the additional encouragement that Sherlock had provided earlier.

_Swish… swish… swi-crack!_

Fuck! “Three!” Certainly, the cane hurts the most out of all the other implements his brother had previously used on him. That –

_Tap. Swi-crack!_

“Four!” All Sherlock can feel is pain blooming across his buttocks – he cannot localize the pain to any specific area anymore.

_Crack!_

Sherlock gasps, “Five!” He could feel the familiar tears start to leak from his eyes.

_Swish… crack!_

“Six!” Sherlock feels the wetness course down his cheeks, and his knees starting to bend.

_Tap… tap…_

His brother uses the cane to tap at his bent knees. “Straighten them – boy!”

Sherlock shakily straightens the offending knees.

His brother is a sadist.

_Crack!_

“Seven!” It comes out as a sob.

_Swish-crack!_

“Eight!” His brother is abusing his thighs now. Sherlock could feel his knees buckle into a squatting position against his will. He feels the wood of the cane tap against his taut abdomen.

“Arch your back, brother. I want to see that arse presented properly.”

Sherlock is trying to not collapse, and his brother is concerned about form!

_Swish… swish… swish… crack!_

“Nine!” Did his brother mention a number? Sherlock manages to think as he sobs.

“Last one…” His brother warns.

_Crack!_

“Ten!” Sherlock lets himself collapse onto the floor – his bum stinging angrily. He weeps. A minute later, he feels his brother’s arms pull him upwards and a gentle kiss pressed onto his cheek.

“My beautiful boy.” Mycroft croons. “You took it so well.”

“I cried.” Sherlock sniffles.

“A perfectly normal physiological response.” Mycroft helps him onto the bed. “Next time we can try a thicker cane – you might find it more pleasurable.”

.

.

Ten magnificent welts grace his brother’s arse and thighs. Mycroft has always loved the aftermath of a caning. None of the skin was broken; a point of pride for him. He lets his fingers trace the fruits of his labour, mindful not to put too much pressure against the welts.

“Mycroft…” His brother mumbles.

Mycroft pulls his brother closer into a hug. He has learned over the last two weeks that his brother liked to be held after these kinds of scenes, and he certainly isn’t going to complain. In fact, Mycroft would describe Sherlock as touch-starved. And no wonder – his little brother hasn’t ever had a physical relationship with another person – and Mycroft is certainly happy that he can openly display all the affection he has with his brother behind closed doors.

“How should I please you?” Sherlock asks after several minutes, reminding Mycroft that there had been three parts to what his brother had asked for.

Mycroft thinks. He then says, “I want you to suck my cock, drink my piss and let me fuck you. Is that acceptable, brother?”

He watches with amusement as his brother processes the new element.

“Yes, that is acceptable, Mycroft.” Sherlock finally responds.

“And if I feel that you deserve it, you can come after.”

“Thank you, brother.”

Those words sound so beautiful to Mycroft’s ears, after hearing years of nasty things coming out of his little brother’s mouth. He watches as Sherlock gets off the bed and sinks down elegantly onto his knees, before getting up himself and removing his own belt, pants and trousers; he wants to be naked when they fuck later. He sits on the bed, wondering what his brother is going to try today.

.

.

The welts still sting – but the pain is no longer intolerable. Sherlock looks up to see his brother’s sizable and already erect cock.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Mycroft’s voice is amused. “I know you’ve been dying to suck my cock since you saw me today, slut.”

Sherlock flushes slightly, knowing that his brother is right. He had thought about it as soon as he had sank down to his knees in the car. He reaches over to lick and mouth at his brother’s balls – an area that he has neglected during his initial forays into the art of fellatio. He can hear Mycroft’s sighs of contentment from above. An undercurrent of anxiety also runs through him – god – his brother is going to piss in his mouth. He can only hope that he could get some of it down without gagging.

“Brother mine, less thinking, and more sucking.” Mycroft reprimands.

He turns his attention to his brother’s cock. With his tongue, he gently laps at his brother’s glans and frenulum, just simply enjoying the act and savouring the taste of his brother’s prick. He feels fingers tug in his hair, so he gets on with it – engulfing the cock in his mouth. After swirling his tongue around a few times, Sherlock hears Mycroft say, “I am going to piss now, brother.”

The warm liquid lands on his tongue – Sherlock fights the urge to pull his mouth off his brother’s cock and spit out the urine. He wants this – or at least he wants to be able to do this for his brother, his Dominant. The fluid streams quickly in his mouth – Sherlock tries to swallow but the flavour causes him to retch. At the end, he manages to get some of it down, but most of it ends up on his chin or on the floor. He looks towards the puddles of his brother’s piss on the floor and instinctively bends down to lick at it. If this is a skill that Mycroft wants him to master, then it would be in his best interests to get used to the taste.

.

.

He must be dreaming. Mycroft muses as he watches his brother lap at the urine on his bedroom floor like a kitten drinking milk. T is an absolute idiot – he thinks – his little brother might be inexperienced, but there is nothing more endearing than an enthusiastic sub that desperately wants to please. And the fact that his brother is licking the piss up without a word from him –made it all the better. He reaches over for a bottle of water on the nightstand. He opens it and takes a sip.

“When you are done, pet – please come up here.” Mycroft orders.

Sherlock climbs back up the bed moments later, his face smelling like piss. Mycroft does not care, he leans over to kiss his brother on the lips before passing the water bottle over.

“Drink. The one thing about drinking piss, brother – is that you have to watch out for dehydration.” Mycroft says, as he watches his brother thirstily down the rest of the bottle. “And, my filthy boy – you will get used to it – the taste. In fact, you may actually beg for such a treat in the future.”

His brother looks absolutely skeptical.

Mycroft merely smiles.

“Present your arse, boy.” He orders.

He watches fondly as his brother quickly flips over and raises his generous bum decorated with the gorgeous welts to the air.

.

.

Sherlock feels a lubed finger circle teasingly around his rim. If he had known his brother was going to pop up in the afternoon, Sherlock would have worn a plug. He would have liked to be prepared – but the circumstances had not permitted it. At least his arse was clean. He sighs when the finger finally slips into his hole and he feels his muscles attempting to suck Mycroft’s finger deep.

“Such a hungry hole you’ve got there, brother.” Mycroft remarks.

“It’s been empty for too long, brother.” Sherlock then demands, “More!”

“Such a needy creature you’ve become, boy. Try again.”

“Another finger, please.” Sherlock tries again – knowing that he is lucky that his brother hadn’t threatened punishment.

“Where would you like this finger, pet?” Mycroft lets his middle finger tease the delicate skin around his anus.

“In my arse – please!” He almost whines.

His brother chuckles, but lets the finger slip into his hole.

“How about my ring finger?” Mycroft repeats the same teasing process – Sherlock wants to die in frustration.

“Please stick it in my arse!” Sherlock demands.

His brother starts rubbing at his prostate once the third finger goes in. Sherlock moans and whimpers when Mycroft starts fondling with his caged cock and balls with his free hand. The discomfort he had originally been feeling turns into pain as his cock engorges further against the unforgiving metal.

“Play with your nipples, pet.” Mycroft orders as he teases Sherlock’s rim with the pinky.

Sherlock obeys, letting one hand lightly pinch one of his nubs.

“I should clamp your nipples next time.” Mycroft suggests, “You will probably like that – having your little tits tormented like that.”

Sherlock moans as he twists one of his nipples mercilessly. There is something dirty about the word tit. In fact, he can even feel his cock start dripping precum at the thought along with whatever devilish thing his brother is doing to his prostate.

“Maybe I should take a needle and push it through each one of your tits – pet.” His brother continues, taking advantage of this discovery, “And put some thick rings through the holes. You can keep wearing those damnably tight shirts of yours – and everyone can see your pretty and pierced tits through them, but only you and I will know that they mean I own you.”

Fuck… he actually wants that – Sherlock thinks as he pinches both of his nipples simultaneously – imagining what they would look like with rings forced through them. They would be something tangible that he could wear every day. And knowing that people could potentially see them makes it even better. And needles… He knows he will enjoy the sensation of being pierced; all those years of IV drug use has wired his body to associate needles with chemically induced pleasure.

He groans and gasps when his brother slowly slips the fourth finger in, spreading him impossibly wide.

“God, brother, you are dripping.” He can hear Mycroft remark. “So, wet for me.”

He breathes slowly when he feels his brother tease his rim of his hole with his thumb. Fuck, he does not think he can take more in his arse. It already feels incredibly full. He can feel beads of sweat slide down his skin. He has ceased tormenting his aching nipples and all his focus is directed at his hole, feeling the slide of his brother’s fingers going in and out. A desperate noise emits from his throat when he feels Mycroft’s thumb press lightly against his stretched rim, sliding slightly inward.

“I can’t.” Sherlock gasps. “It’s too much!”

“You could.” He hears Mycroft reply – he barely notices the slightly breathless quality in his brother’s voice.

“Please…” Sherlock whimpers.

“I won’t fist you today, pet. But soon.” Mycroft strokes his rim with the pad of his thumb, before withdrawing it, “I will prepare and clean you out well – and you will love it.”

He sighs with relief, and then he whines despairingly at the emptiness when his brother pulls out all his fingers from his stretched hole.

“Ask for it, brother mine.” Mycroft leans forward to whisper in his ear.

“Please, Mycroft…” Sherlock gasps, his mind is not working properly anymore. “I want… I want…”

“What do you want, pet?” Mycroft presses a tender kiss against the nape of his neck. “Use your words.”

“Fuck me!” He cries out, the desperation evident in his plea. “With… with…”

“With what?” Mycroft is ruthless. “Well, brother – if you take too long to figure this out – I might just finish myself and leave you like this for the rest of the night...”

“My…!” Sherlock whines in frustration.

“Come on, pet. You do have a brain. Use it.” Mycroft’s voice is more teasing than anything else.

Sherlock takes a deep breath. “Please… fuck me with your cock!”

“Good boy.” Mycroft croons, “You have to learn how to ask for things, love – or you might never get them.”

Mycroft’s cock rubs teasingly against his perineum before finally entering Sherlock’s loosened hole. He thrusts his bum back with every thrust, wanting more. The welts on his arse sting deliciously when Mycroft’s pelvis slaps against them. His caged cock sways uselessly, continuing to leak. He can hear his brother’s pants and groans as he exerts himself. The familiar pressure builds up in his groin and balls, and the erectile tissue of his cock pushes futilely against his cage. He is aware that his own breathing is becoming increasingly ragged, and he wants to come - desperately. But his brother had said that he would only let him come if he felt that Sherlock deserved it. So, with whatever willpower he has left, Sherlock keeps his mouth shut – determined not to beg for his release. He can feel tears leak from his ducts when his brother’s cock rubs him perfectly, the combination of pleasure and agony from denial is killing him.

His brother, of course, notices when Sherlock has mentally accepted his fate. Mycroft’s voice is trembling and breathless – but his brother speaks slowly, making each syllable crystal clear. “You, gorgeous creature –suffering so willingly for my pleasure. You –“ Mycroft suddenly thrusts hard into him and continues to accentuate each carefully articulated word with a similar stroke, “are never more beautiful like this.” And he hears his brother groan as he ejaculates, feeling the warm seed enter the depths of his arse. “I adore you. Love you beyond all reason.” Mycroft slumps against him and wraps his arms possessively around him. “My perfect boy.” His brother whispers.

Sherlock is surprised when minutes later, his brother unlocks and removes his cage. Mycroft’s hand tenderly cups his immediately erect cock and carefully strokes, making sure that the pressure he exerts is not too much for Sherlock’s too-sensitive member. It is not the pleasure of the situation that moves Sherlock, but rather the intense focus and concentration on Mycroft’s face – as if making Sherlock cum has become the most important task in the universe.

When he is close, his brother whispers affectionately to him, “Come for me, brother mine.”

And Sherlock does.


	12. Chapter 12

The signs are all there – John reflects – as he watches Sherlock eat a pork puff pastry from his dim sum leftovers from last night. His eccentric flatmate is standing at the kitchen counter, and there is something about the way Sherlock moves that reminds John of a previous girlfriend of his from his medical school days. Sylvia? Tasha? No, Camille. His fingers brush against the leather of his belt – he remembers how tantalizingly wet the blonde would get after a thorough spanking over his lap and how deliciously she had begged John to use his belt on her.

His eyes fixate on Sherlock’s generous bottom, wondering what kind of marks lay beneath his woolen trousers. Reddened handprints? The lashes of a belt?

Thanks to a memorable day at Buckingham Palace, John can practically picture a set of red markings on Sherlock’s pale buttocks.

If only if he were as good as deductions as Sherlock.

“Is there something wrong with my bottom, John?” The suspicious notes of his flatmate’s voice stirs John out of his speculations.

Yes, that’s exactly what they were. Harmless speculations. One of John’s unofficial jobs over the last few years is to be Sherlock’s minder and caretaker. It is perfectly normal to have concern over his flatmate’s state of health – and that includes his pert behind.

“Um… no.” John quickly answers.

At Sherlock’s skeptical glance, he offers. “I mean, um… You are behaving like how one of my girlfriends used to… uh…. She liked being hurt. And, after such a night, she would move gingerly, like how you are doing now.” He adds while watching Sherlock move carefully to grab a shrimp dumpling from the table. “Let me guess, experiment?”

That is not John’s actual guess however. He isn’t that stupid. It must be a residual effect of the Irene Adler days. John is still convinced that something happened between Sherlock and the dominatrix.

“Yes John,” Sherlock looks relieved at the bait John throws at him. “Seeing how the marks of corporal punishment change over time.”

“Ah.” John smiles. This conversation is absolutely absurd. “Moving on from the flesh of corpses to the living body.”

“Precisely.”

“Well, if you ever need an assistant, let me know.” John smirks before getting up to clear his dishes. He’d better leave for work soon, or Sarah is going to have his hide again.

The split-second expression on Sherlock’s face is absolutely priceless. John giggles to himself as he grabs his medical kit, his coat and his keys before leaving the flat. Sherlock might be conducting an experiment, but there is certainly some sort of gratification going on. He firmly tries to cease his speculating before his mind wonders if Sherlock has sex with the spanking or flogging or whatever it is that is going on.

.

.

_Really brother? In my bedroom? SH_

Mycroft smirks slightly at his phone in his Whitehall office.

 _So, he found it then_.

This game has been going on for years – it comprises of Mycroft having one of his minions sneak a camera into his brother’s flat and Sherlock finding it and disposing of it as he usually does. This time, Mycroft had Anthea plant the bug; now that Sherlock is his, he needs to be cautious about who has access to this sensitive information.

_Bring up the feed, my dear perverted Dominant. ;) SH_

_Brother mine, people do work at this hour! MH_

_Even better! SH_

He audibly groans.

This is his brother punishing him.

_I went shopping today, big brother. SH_

_That’s lovely. I am sure Dr. Watson appreciates your generosity, pet. MH_

_Do not be daft, brother! I did not go for groceries, but if you are going to be like this – maybe I should go see if John appreciates my ‘generosity’, sir. SH_

He takes a deep breath. Sherlock is deliberately pressing his buttons. Mycroft knows he has to tread carefully here. He is the Dominant in this relationship, and he does not appreciate subs topping from the bottom, so to speak. And this would so be like his brother – one moment, terribly insecure – the next, pushing things as far as they could go.

_Don’t you dare! MH_

_You will regret that very much. And I call your bluff. MH_

_I highly doubt Dr. Watson’s equipment is satisfactory for your slutty hole, pet. MH_

_I want your cock. SH_

_I know you do. MH_

_I always want it. SH_

_As a good cock slut should. MH_

_Please, brother? SH_

_You will like it. SH_

Mycroft sighs. He is only human, after all.

He quickly glances over at his office door before opening the video feed to his brother’s bedroom.

Sherlock is kneeling on his bed with his thighs spread, naked, with the exception of a tantalizing slip of sheer black lace barely covering his nether regions. His hands are clasped behind his back and his head is respectfully tilted forward.

A beautiful submissive boy.

_Show me, pet. MH_

Sherlock smiles shyly on the screen when he sees the text, before reaching over off-screen to fetch something. Mycroft feels something heavy in his chest – an acute attack of sentiment. In his brother’s hands, Mycroft can see a large metal anal plug – that is not part of the silicone set that he had given Sherlock earlier. Sherlock turns it around, so Mycroft could see the base.

Fuck.

It is one of those jewel butt plugs, and this one is pink with a heart-shaped base. God. His brother is really going to be the death of him. Sherlock flips around to present his arse to the screen. There is already a large silicone plug up his arse, the flared base bisected by the thin lace of his panties, stretching his hole out. The five pairs of fading cane stripes on his brother’s bum and thighs finish the picture.

_God, brother – you have been busy. MH_

Mycroft already wants to take his cock out of his trousers.

_More like anxious. SH_

_Why, brother? You have nothing to fear from me, except if you disobey my orders. MH_

_That my arse wouldn’t be able to take your fist… SH_

_I know you wanted to do it over the weekend. SH_

_I do, but only if you want to. MH_

_I do. SH_

_Then we do not have a problem. I promise that it will be pleasurable – for both of us. MH_

_Continue your show, brother. MH_

His brother slides his knickers down his thighs, stopping when the slip of material reaches his knees. Mycroft can see Sherlock’s caged cock swaying with his movements. He smiles, pleased that his brother has gotten used to the device. He had been tempted to let Sherlock go uncaged for the week, to reward his brother for his good behaviour, but knowing how naughty and impulsive his sub could be – it probably is not a wise idea. Sherlock hadn’t looked pleased when Mycroft had put the cock cage back on his member before he had left for Baker Street but had submitted to its placement quietly.

It is only a shame that the burned ‘M’ is all but gone now.

He watches as Sherlock grabs the flared base of the silicone plug with a pale hand. With a few twists and tugs, the plug comes out, leaving a deliciously gaping hole behind. Mycroft has the urge to lick at the reddened rim of his brother’s arse. The opening flutters a bit, before finally winking shut. God. His fingers unbuckle his belt and unfasten his fly as he watches Sherlock squeeze a copious amount of lubricant onto the new plug. Mycroft starts stroking his member as the tip of the new plug teases his brother’s hole. Fuck, he should have installed a bug that picked up sound as well; he is missing out on all the alluring noises that his brother is undoubtedly making.

_I wish you were here to do this for me. SH_

_As do I. MH_

He texts with his free hand. Sherlock works the plug in slowly with a careful mix of pushing and twisting, the girth of this new toy is a lot wider than the previous plug that had been in his anus. Mycroft imagines the sounds his brother would be making – the increasingly stilted breathing, the inevitable moans as the toy rubs against all those pleasurable spots inside and struggling grunts as the plug stretches him out. Sherlock is probably panting now; the gradual penetration had stopped as his brother takes a breather and tries to relax his sphincter muscles further.

_God, it’s too big, brother. SH_

_Well, boy, you better finish what you started. MH_

_Save your load for me? SH_

_Please? SH_

_Pretty, pretty, please? SH_

Mycroft sighs, but he cannot find it within him to refuse.

_You better be at my place at nine, then. Tonight. MH_

_Thank you, big brother. SH_

His brother shifts his position a little, before beginning the process of pushing the plug in further. Mycroft can see that Sherlock is taking slow controlled breaths, timing the penetration with the rate of his respirations. His own hand starts frigging his own prick at the same pace as well – and it’s a deliciously torturous way to proceed. He can almost hear Sherlock sigh in relief when the widest part of the toy finally breaches the tight ring of muscle and the rest of the plug gets sucked in by his well-trained arse.

_Beautiful. MH_

_Keep it in you for the rest of the day. MH_

Fuck, he just wants to spray his cum all over the heart adorning his brother’s arse.

_I will see you at the usual spot. MH_

_Yes, Master. SH_

Bloody hell.

Mycroft gives himself a few more strokes before tucking his aching cock back in his trousers. He manfully shuts down the feed and counts to fifty to calm himself down before going back to work.

When he leaves the office, Anthea gives him a knowing smirk as she wishes him a pleasant evening.


	13. Chapter 13

_He could get used to this._

Mycroft thinks as he enters his bedroom. His gaze immediately falls onto the perfect pale back of his kneeling brother on his handwoven rug from Jaipur. He had not bought the rug with Sherlock in mind, but he enjoys immensely the visual study of dark oriental wool and smooth alabaster skin. His brother stays perfectly still as Mycroft quietly walks over; it is self-restraint that he has always appreciated in his subs.

A tremor visibly travels throughout his brother’s body when Mycroft rests his palm against that prominent cervical spinous process which serves as the junction between neck and back. He follows, both with his hand and eyes down the bones of Sherlock’s vertebrae to the thoughtful gift buried in his brother’s arse. He lightly traces the edges delineating the facets of the pink jeweled heart; his gentle touches eliciting changes and a hitch in his brother’s once even breathing.

“Sentiment, pet?” Mycroft whispers gently in Sherlock’s ear, while continuing to run his fingers against the heart.

He had never expected this much from his brother; honestly, Mycroft had been happy to get what he could. It had been enough for him that Sherlock had wanted him to continue being his Dominant, but if there is more on offer, Mycroft would take it.

_Cherish it._

“Maybe… yes.” Sherlock says after a brief silence – looking and sounding incredibly vulnerable.

“Oh, Sherlock…” Mycroft struggles to maintain his usual tone. He finally kneels down completely on the rug to be at eye-level with his brother. “It’s all fine. I’ve said it many times, but I return your sentiment, wholeheartedly.” Indeed, he had mentioned to his brother that he had wanted them to be lovers, but Sherlock had never said anything about it. But then again, neither of them had ever been experts in the expression of the softer emotions. He caresses Sherlock’s chin, and with a slight pressure, turns his brother’s head slightly to kiss his plush lips. “My gorgeous boy.” Mycroft’s fingers travel down his brother’s elegant neck and takes a moment to feel the pulsing of Sherlock’s carotid against his skin.

“We can never be together the usual way…”

.

.

Sherlock is surprised by the amount of sorrow in his tone.

He feels the tender touch of his brother’s lips caressing his own again, before Mycroft breaks away and says simply, “It does not matter, as long as we know.” His brother takes a deep breath and continues, “And, one day we can go somewhere else without those silly old laws, if that is what you truly desire – little brother.”

Damn, would his brother actually do that for him?

Sherlock asks, “What if people find out?”

“I will deal with it.” Mycroft says with dark pleasantry; switching instantaneously from romantic lover to something perhaps even darker and colder than the icy persona his brother wears publicly. “Now that I have you, I have no intention of letting you go, pet. Ever.”

_Let’s hope it never gets to that._

Sherlock deduces from his brother’s tone that there is nothing Mycroft would not do to keep them together. And, as flattering as that may sound, Sherlock does not want to find out the extent of what Mycroft would do, any time soon.

“What are we doing today?” Sherlock quickly changes the topic.

“Let’s put on your collar first, boy.” Mycroft replies fondly as Sherlock feels the much-welcome leather of his collar being placed around his neck. “And I think we should remove this – for now.” His brother proceeds to unlock his cage and remove it. Sherlock feels his blood abruptly rush downward – and it takes a lot of willpower to not curl his hand around his free and erect member.

“Mm… so hard for me already.” Mycroft remarks after examining Sherlock’s prick. “Well, pet, I would like to cum first – as you have asked for me to keep my load for you. Maybe I should fuck that lovely throat of yours, hm?” His brother’s fingers caress the delicate skin of his throat, lightly brushing over his sternocleidomastoids and his laryngeal prominence.

Sherlock swallows audibly. He wants it – to be used by his brother like that. “Yes, brother.”

“Show me a peace sign if you can’t handle it, pet.” Mycroft says, “That will be our safeword if your mouth is occupied.”

Sherlock sticks out two fingers as indicated and Mycroft nods.

“Take out my cock.”

Sherlock shuffles on his knees and eagerly unfastens his brother’s trousers, trying to suppress a moan when the plug in his arse rubs at a particularly nice spot. He cannot help but to place a tiny reverent kiss on his brother’s glans once he had gotten Mycroft’s cock out.

After all, it is a phallus worth worshipping.

His brother smiles affectionately at him. “Open your mouth, pet.”

Sherlock does – as wide as he could. His brother grabs his hair roughly and shoves his large cock with some force into his waiting mouth. Spluttering, gagging and coughing, Sherlock tries to suck around Mycroft’s invading prick. Somehow, Sherlock manages to open his airway wider, and his brother’s large cock actually and miraculously manages to bottom out. Mycroft stops at that moment, giving Sherlock a chance to adapt and to adjust to the intrusion.

“Fuck, you look amazing like this, brother.” Mycroft’s own breathing is becoming laboured.

When Sherlock feels his throat relax around his brother’s cock, Mycroft begins to thrust lightly and shallowly before gradually increasing both of those parameters. God, he’s drooling, making obscene noises and struggling to breathe, but he craves more. Wants more. Sherlock’s hands actually creep up Mycroft’s thighs to his hips and applies a bit of pressure, signaling to his brother to give him more.

“God… you… are… such a slut.” His brother breathes raggedly, each syllable is an effort.

At some point, Mycroft is literally fucking his throat, and Sherlock’s nose is banging rhythmically into the pubic bone of his brother’s pelvis. His eyes are tearing as Mycroft is chasing his impending orgasm. He feels his brother’s hand lightly press against the skin of his throat, as if palpating for his own cock. The thought of it is incredibly hot, and Sherlock hopes desperately that he wouldn’t come during the end; his cock and balls are red and bordering blue, hard and aching; he’s struggled enough to be a good sub in the last few days to fail at the task now.

Finally, his brother grunts and comes down his throat at the same time Sherlock tries to breathe and he ends up coughing and spasming around Mycroft’s cock. His brother looks incredibly dazed when he pulls out his softening prick, while Sherlock catches himself with his hands before his own face could hit the floor.

Cum and saliva drip steadily from Sherlock’s mouth as he struggles not to retch. Soon, Mycroft regains his own mental faculties and searches around to bring back a bottle of water. Sherlock drinks gratefully while his brother rubs the mixture of cum and saliva deeper into the skin of his face, neck and chest.

“You are a wonder.” Mycroft sighs contentedly as he continues to massage at Sherlock’s cum-covered skin. “So depraved, so wonderful.”

Sherlock leans against his brother while Mycroft continues to caress his naked skin, occasionally pressing a kiss to some part of his body. He doesn’t think he could speak for the next little while.

“I have a present for you, pet.” Mycroft says many minutes later – Sherlock isn’t sure about the quantity. “You were pretty turned on when I mentioned it a few days ago…”

His brother pulls out two small sealed bags, each of them containing a pair of sterile rings – one pair silver, the other a gold that matched the D-rings of his collar and cuffs.

Fuck, they would go into his nipples – Sherlock deduces.

“You don’t have to, if you don’t want to.” Mycroft adds. “But, I figured since I keep your cock under lock and key, you might as well have some toys to play with when I am not around.”

“Would you do it for me?” Sherlock tests his voice for the first time since the fucking.

It comes out hoarse.

“I can, yes.” Mycroft's fingers reach for one of his nipples to caress and pinch. “Fuck, brother, you sound like a whore.”

Sherlock flushes slightly, but he arcs his back to indicate he wants more. Mycroft obliges him and plays with both his tits, lightly pinching, pulling and twisting them – turning them into stiff hard nubs. He moans and whimpers while rubbing his face against his brother’s shirt.

“So responsive…” Mycroft says more to himself.

“When would you do it?” Sherlock asks, somewhat breathless.

“Maybe for a special occasion?” Mycroft looks thoughtful. “My birthday – maybe? It’s the closest …”

“That would do.” Sherlock replies back. “Thank you, brother – for the jewelry and the cum.”

“Anytime. You will have to look after them, if you want them to heal properly.” Mycroft lectures as he twists a nipple, causing Sherlock to squirm and mewl. “I could do it with barbells initially to prevent them from being caught on things…”

“I will. You can just do the rings – I will tape them if I have a case or something…” Sherlock mumbles. “And, of course I know that. I will treasure everything you give to me.”

“Even the cage, brother?” Mycroft is amused.

“Even that…” Sherlock sighs. “Can I cum today, brother?”

“I haven’t decided yet.” Mycroft says teasingly.

“Evil, evil brother…” Sherlock shakes his head.

“Then I shan’t.” Mycroft crosses his arms in mock anger.

Sherlock immediately gets on his arms and knees. He has long given up dignity. He then pleads, “Please, please, big brother – you are the best –“

“I am your only brother.” Mycroft corrects, utterly unmoved. “I wasn’t going to let you come till the weekend, anyways.”

“Let me earn it then.” Sherlock tries another tactic.

“I want to spank you, little brother.” Mycroft says. There is hunger in his words.

“Then spank me!” Sherlock flips around and offers his bum. He gives it an enticing wiggle.

His brother gets up from the rug and rummages through a drawer. He comes back with a pair of clamps connected together by a metal chain. Sherlock’s mouth goes slightly dry at the sight.

“Just something for your little tits, brother.” Mycroft adjusts the clamps and tests the pressure on his own skin. “Since we aren’t going to pierce them today.”

Sherlock watches nervously as his brother opens a clamp and slowly lets the rubber tips close around his already teased and stiffened right nipple. He whimpers when the pressure between the jaws increase to the point where there is an almost unbearable sensation of pain thrumming through his pinched flesh.

“Breathe, brother.” Mycroft reminds him, “Before you pass out.”

His brother repeats the same process with his other nipple. Sherlock breathes slowly – trying to handle the pain that his Dominant is giving him.

God – it fucking hurts.

“Put the chain in your mouth. Don’t drop it – I guarantee you that you will not be forgetting the experience any time soon if you do.” Mycroft warns as he presses the silvery chain against his lips.

Sherlock parts his lips and obediently accepts the surprisingly heavy chain into his mouth.

.

.

Mycroft is sitting on a wooden chair on top of the rug. His brother is spread over his lap, with his bountiful bum over his right knee. The mirror has been positioned so that Sherlock can see his arse from under the legs of the chair. His brother’s erection had abated somewhat after the nipple clamps, so Mycroft gently fondles his brother’s balls and cock, feeling Sherlock’s prick twitch, grow and harden once more under his fingers.

He still remembers the first time he had Sherlock over his lap like this – how hard his brother’s cock had gotten after a few spanks to his bare bottom! And how shy and embarrassed his supposedly asexual brother had been then – uncomfortable with being in the nude and about the nature of his own sexuality.

He would describe that first session as endearing.

A true beginning to his little brother’s journey into depravity.

This spanking is not punishment – Mycroft thinks – but for pleasure. He allows his dominant hand to run over the luxurious globes of his brother’s arse, taking some time to tease at his brother’s stretched rim and tap at the heart-shaped base of Sherlock’s sentimental gift – eliciting delicious moans of pleasure from his brother.

God, he had been dreaming of Sherlock’s bum for years – even before the sheet incident – and he still cannot believe he has this now.

_Smack!_

.

.

Sherlock moans and whimpers in pleasure and pain when the first hit lands on his bum. The spank itself is pleasurable – it causes the large plug to move pleasantly in his arse – but the effort jostles his body, causing the chain to tug somewhat painfully on his captive nipples. In the mirror, he can see the first red handprint bloom over his right gluteus maximus, and –

_Smack!_

The pain in his nipples comes in waves. His brother alternates between spanking him, teasing his hole and playing with his genitalia. Gradually the pain and pleasure seem to blend together – his body can no longer differentiate between the two – and he ends up in a position where every sensation seems to build deliciously pleasant aches in his bum, nipples and groin. Tears stream down his face, while he is desperately wiggling his reddening bum in his brother’s lap, trying to communicate that he needs more. More of what – he is not quite sure. He wants to beg, but the metal in his mouth renders him silent.

He does not dare let the chain drop.  

.

.

Mycroft himself is hard and aching again – how could he not be after watching his brother wantonly wiggle, writhe and arch his arse, signaling that he needed more of whatever Mycroft is giving him?

If he is not careful, Sherlock could probably come from this – and Mycroft does not want that to happen.

“Brother – get off my lap. I want to fuck you and maybe renew some of those cane marks on your arse and thighs.”

He ends up helping his brother up and to the bed. Sherlock is partially out of it, so Mycroft carefully takes the metal chain from Sherlock’s mouth and clips it onto the front of his collar instead. He notes that he could probably keep the clamps on his brother’s nipples for about ten more minutes. Mycroft presses kisses onto his brother’s face and wipes away some of the tears – giving his pet a minute to recover his equilibrium from the spanking.

“Cane me first, if you still desire to do so.” Sherlock mumbles somewhat drunkenly. “Please fuck me last.”

“If that’s what you want, pet.” Mycroft quickly gets up and grabs a cane from his trunk – this time he picks a dragon cane – his own personal favourite.

He arranges Sherlock, so that his bum is situated at the edge of the bed. Taking the cane close to his brother’s arse, Mycroft snaps it against the generous flesh.

_Snap!_

.

.

Whatever his brother is doing to his bum, it does not hurt. It simply adds to the burning and aching but pleasurable sensation that Mycroft’s previous spanks had created – pushing him closer to what was probably climax.

_Snap!_

_Snap!_

_Snap! Snap! Snap! Snap!_

He whines and whimpers, as his brother puts a bit more force into each hit, distributing them between his bum and thighs.

_Thwack!_

_Thwack!_

_Swish… crack! Crack!_

He is openly sobbing now, the licks of the cane start manifesting themselves as searing burning lines down his bum and thighs – he knows those are the ones that are going to last a while on his pale skin.

And they put a damper on his arousal – pulling him back from the precipice.

Sherlock hears his brother throw down the implement and gathers him into his arms.

“Fuck, brother – you are so beautiful like this. Taking the pain I give to you.” Mycroft kisses him again. “Let me fuck you, and you can come – my darling boy.”

His brother’s fingers trace his stretched rim, and finally Mycroft pulls out the plug that had been in him for a few hours with an obscene sounding squelch. Without any teasing, his brother thrusts into his open hole and gently fucks him, making each stroke count. The build to climax is quick, Sherlock’s breaths grow stilted as his brother reaches under to stroke his cock and orders, “Come for me, love!” and Sherlock spills his seed onto the bedsheets.

His brother pulls out of his arse and a minute later, Sherlock feels Mycroft’s cum being released in stripes over his abused arse and thighs, the fluid dripping down to intermingle with his own on the sheets.

“This is going to hurt, brother.” Mycroft induces Sherlock to lie on his side after taking a minute to recover from his own orgasm. “Breathe.”

Sherlock watches as his brother carefully unclamps his nipples; he hisses in pain as the blood returns back to the tortured flesh. Mycroft ducks down to press feathery light kisses on both of his agonized nipples, using his tongue to tenderly soothe each one. The gentle licking turns into careful mouthing and sucking, and Sherlock feels the stirrings of arousal flare up again in his loins.

“I am not letting you come again until the weekend, little brother.” Mycroft warns, before lavishing more attention on his left nipple.

Sherlock lets out a moan, before saying, “It’s not my fault I am getting aroused again.”

“I know.” Mycroft smirks mischievously at him. “It’s because you have a sexy Dominant.”

“I do.” Sherlock leans over to kiss his brother. “But, he also has a big ego.”  

“Is it as big as my cock, brother?” Mycroft asks between kisses.

Sherlock lets out a noise of frustration and Mycroft simply laughs.

It is a beautiful sound that Sherlock has not heard in years.

He makes a mental note to try and get his brother to laugh genuinely more often.

Mycroft then says seriously, “I am allowed to have a big ego, because I have a beautifully slutty submissive, brother. The best.” There is another pause, before Mycroft adds, the blues in his irises suddenly softening, “I adore you, little brother. So much.”

There is a queasy feeling in Sherlock’s chest – intense sentiment. He snuggles against his brother’s chest and presses another tender kiss against Mycroft’s lips.

.

.

“I suppose,” John begins cautiously as he spreads some butter on his toast while trying his hardest to suppress his amusement, “That you now have a second set of samples for your experiment?”

Sherlock turns around sharply from the kitchen counter, his fingers still lodged in a box of ginger nuts. “Well, it is important to have many repeats, John. Repeatability of data is important.”

John buries his snickers in a coughing fit. How can his flatmate state these things with a straight face like that? At Sherlock’s inquisitive look, John coughs again and clears his throat. “Sorry, there’s a bit of a cold going around in the clinic.”

“I see.” Sherlock seems skeptical.

“So, um… what kind of implement are you investigating?” John carefully asks with as innocent a voice he could muster. “The riding crop?” It seemed like a good place to start, especially with Sherlock’s predilection for whipping dead bodies with it.

“At this phase of the experiment?” Sherlock looks somewhat dazed, as if he is lost in his mind somewhere. “Canes.”

Damn… hardcore. John muses. He adds some lovely linear welts to his mental image of Sherlock’s bum. “I presume that the same person applies your samples?” He does not know how he is capable of carrying this conversation without bursting into helpless laughter.

“Of course, John. We have to keep all those variables consistent.” Sherlock has returned to his haughty self. “For the data to be comparable.”

“Well, I do hope that you are taking suitable precautions out there.” John says as he finishes up the rest of his toast and tea before cleaning up.

_Yeah, like safe sex and aftercare…_

“Thank you for your concern, John. But, yes, I am taking all the precautions.”

_Oh my god, was that a genuine ‘thank you’ from his notoriously impolite flatmate? Will wonders never cease?_

John quickly gathers his things before heading out of the flat.

_Damn, whatever or whoever Sherlock is engaging in or with these days has managed to do something that John had been trying for years!_

_Teaching his flatmate manners!_


	14. Chapter 14

_There is just nothing on…_

John sighs deeply in abject boredom as he mindlessly scrolls through the comments on his blog. It is barely Friday evening, and he laments the dearth of interesting cases and hot dates – the latest bird had bailed via text just as John had left the clinic an hour ago.

A flicker of something pink in his peripheral vision catches his attention.

_Tongue._

His flatmate is sitting cross-legged on the couch with a pink popsicle in hand. _When the bloody hell did we even get those?_ As far as John is aware, he is the only person in the flat that actually does the groceries, and he certainly did not buy any popsicles recently. Mindful to keep his focus on the screen of his laptop, John peeks out of the corner of his eye as Sherlock’s pink tongue teasingly darts in and out of his mouth and laps delicately at the tip of the treat. The tiny kitten licks gradually evolve into longer swirling gestures that take the popsicle deeper into his flatmate’s oral cavity. Sherlock’s cheeks even hollow out slightly, with the application of suction to the cylindrical dessert.

_Oh my god._

_Is Mr. My-body-is-just-transport fellating a popsicle? What kind of alternative universe did he wake up in today?_

Any ambiguities pertaining to his flatmate’s activities instantly dissolve when Sherlock shifts his body slightly to lengthen the elegant column that is his neck before taking the popsicle deep down his throat with the ease of someone who does this relatively often.

_Holy shit._

His flatmate even thrusts the pink treat up and down a few times before pulling the popsicle back out with a salacious sounding slurp.

 _Damn_.

None of his girlfriends had ever been able to deep throat him like that. A few of the more adventurous ones had tried, but it had led to some rather unsexy gagging and choking. One had almost thrown up.

God. _Is Sherlock performing oral sex these days? On a man? Or on a female dominatrix’s strap-on?_

 _Is Irene Adler back in town?_ John knows Irene is not dead – he had heard that annoying notification alert go off enough from Sherlock’s phone.

“Something wrong, John?”

Sherlock now has his phone in one hand, and the popsicle in the other. The pink coating at the top had melted through, revealing a creamy inside. Somehow, when John’s attention had been diverted by his speculations, some of that cream had ended up smeared around his flatmate’s popsicle-stained lips – making the image more suggestive than it already is.

John could barely suppress a groan. It has been far too long since he has had any sort of sex. “Nothing.” He says quickly, while shaking his head. “Absolutely nothing at all.”

His flatmate shrugs, and resumes eating his popsicle in a normal fashion.

John immediately clicks for the tab containing a hookup site on his browser. If he doesn’t find some girl today or tomorrow for casual sex, he is going to go mental.

.

.

_A little reminder on what you are missing out on this lovely Friday evening, brother. SH_

Mycroft stares hard at the video attachment that comes seconds after. The still features his brother holding a pink popsicle with a vague resemblance to something phallic; it does not take much imagination to deduce what the contents of this video contains.

He is stuck monitoring a teleconference amongst various world leaders, mining for data – and he sincerely hopes to get out of his office soon. He really shouldn’t tap on the video, but he does so anyways. After all, no one would be able to see or hear him from the other ends.

Even Anthea, ever-reliable Anthea, had long gone home to go play with her boyfriend, or rather, sub this evening.

It is what Mycroft wishes he could be doing now.

Playing with Sherlock…

On the screen, his brother brings up the pink treat to his mouth, where a delicate kiss is placed at the tip; a ritual that Sherlock had created himself and performs every time before he sucks Mycroft’s cock.

He can already feel his cock twitch and stiffen in his trousers. God, such a simple gesture is enough to undo him these days.

And his brother even deep throats the bloody dessert – and wait… is that cream?

Fucking hell.

Is it even possible to be jealous of something as simple as a popsicle?

He watches as Sherlock slowly sticks his tongue out and deliberately licks off the cream that had gotten onto his lips.

_I wish my cock was there… MH_

_What a coincidence! I wish that my popsicle was your cock. SH_

_Be there at ten, please. Do not undress. If this conference does not wrap up soon, I am going to bail. MH_

_Tsk, Mycroft… shirking your duties to Queen and country? SH_

_I am very flattered, brother dear. SH_

_Shush, pet… I just want to spend my Friday with you before it matures into a Saturday. MH_

_< 3 SH_

_Love you too. MH_

.

.

“I am going out, John – don’t wait up!” Sherlock grabs his coat and scarf before disappearing quickly behind the flat door.

The door slams loudly in his wake.

 _Damn, even Sherlock has Friday evening plans._ John sighs again and goes to find some porn. Preferably one with some deep throating, and a long pale elegant neck – female, of course.

_No doubt ‘going out’ means somebody is going to get lucky. Especially with that sort of foreplay…_

.

.

It feels odd to be kneeling here on his brother’s rug, fully clothed.

Sherlock is wearing a tight dark blue shirt that he knows Mycroft particularly likes, with his customary dark trousers. His feet are sockless, and his toes dig comfortingly into the soft luxurious dark wool. His brother is a little late, but Sherlock doesn’t mind; he likes kneeling here, and it helps to get him into that comforting submissive frame of mind before his brother arrives.

“Fuck, pet, you must be gagging for it – for you to send me such a video.” Sherlock hears Mycroft say as he enters the bedroom. “How many days has it been since we last did this?”

“Three.” Sherlock keeps his head tilted towards the rug. “Three days. I am always gagging for you, Mycroft.”

“My little whore.” Mycroft says, his voice a sweet caress. His brother then drops down beside him. “That’s what you are.” He then pauses before saying thoughtfully, “I read that fantasy of yours. The one you wrote two days ago. Little innocent virgin boy, captured to be sold into sexual slavery. A surprising fantasy for someone who has taken down quite a few of those nasty rings, brother mine.”

Sherlock blushes. He and his brother have an encrypted space on the web for a journal that Sherlock writes in for his assignments, their play contract and the sharing of longer messages between them. And, he has written down a rather cliché fantasy this week. “I do not choose my fantasies, brother.”

“Ah, just as you can’t help being a slut.” Mycroft lightly brushes his fingertips against Sherlock’s cheekbones and chin, and gently exerts pressure to tilt his head before kissing him on the lips for the first time today. Sherlock allows himself to melt into the kiss, basking in the affection that his brother lavishes upon him.

“Victims can go for about 40,000 pounds apiece, brother.” Sherlock whispers quietly when Mycroft finally breaks their kiss.

“A pretty little virginal thing like you could easily fetch over that. And, a trained sex slave – can go for hundreds of thousands.” Mycroft’s smile now has an ominous and dark character to it. “That is, if you can find the right buyer.”

His brother turns around to fetch something from under the bed – a whip – single tailed. Sherlock’s mouth gapes open in surprise. He knows enough about them to know that there are public dungeons that ban them outright as they could be dangerous in the wrong hands. Sherlock flinches when his brother cracks the whip loudly near him with practiced ease.

God, of course Mycroft would know how to use one, and it is as hot as hell. His gaze falls upon his brother’s uncovered forearm, admiring the muscles hidden beneath the skin.

“So, little brother, how did you envision yourself as a whore?” Mycroft lets the whip’s braided thong run between his fingers. “A posh high-end market one?”

“A decorated tarty one.” Sherlock feels himself flush red all over with embarrassment; he can even feel his caged cock dripping in response onto the wool of his trousers.

Of course, his brother is going to make him spell everything out, even though he had written down all the details.

“As a girl?”

“No, as a boy, brother. Maybe a bit on the androgynous side?” Sherlock thinks.

“Permit me to appraise the merchandise. Strip.” Mycroft commands.

.

.

It is almost adorable how embarrassed Sherlock is over all of this. Mycroft lets the whip coil around his forearm and arm as he watches Sherlock hesitate – ah his brother is playing the role of the innocent virginal boy in his fantasy. Well, to be fair, it wasn’t too long ago that Mycroft had taken his brother’s virginity – but he wonders if he should have made more of a fuss over it – especially if his little brother has fantasies like this…

“As much as I would like to undress you, generally it is the whore who services their clients, pet.” Mycroft says with an indulgent and fond air, while schooling his own features to play the role of an impatient client – he allows his fingers to drum impatiently against his trousers.

Sometimes he forgets how good of an actor Sherlock can be. His little brother’s fingers fumble nervously at the buttons of his delectable blue shirt, exposing the beautifully pale skin of his sculpted torso inch by painfully slow inch. A deliberately unskilled yet erotic striptease, which causes his own member to twitch with interest. The trousers go off next, and his brother moves quickly covers his groin – something that Mycroft finds absurd considering Sherlock’s caged cock – and turns away from him – shy.

One could almost believe that Sherlock is an adolescent virgin – almost.

Mycroft shuffles over to where Sherlock kneels, and he aggressively slaps his brother’s hands away from his genitalia. “You better get used to people looking at your assets, pet. There are a few buyers coming tomorrow. And I intend to sell you to the highest bidder.”

Good god, his brother is making a puddle from this fantasy. If they weren’t playing this particular game – Mycroft would have made Sherlock lick up his mess from the rug by now.

“Answer me, boy.” Mycroft lets his whip crack again.

“Yes… sir.” Sherlock lets his posture slump… a look of a boy who does not see a way out of his predicament. His voice somehow sounds young and uncertain – like how he was before Mycroft had gone away for university. He still remembers how upset Sherlock had been when he had told him he was going away for his education.

Their relationship had never been the same after that…

“I do not quite know what you mean by decorated and tarty, brother – but maybe these might be to your liking?” Mycroft fetches a box from underneath the bed, ignoring the queasy nostalgic and sentimental feeling rising in his chest.

From the box he pulls out a ridiculously short skirt with golden bells attached to the hem, and a pair of golden nipple clamps; each clamp is attached to a short gold chain with a bell attached at the end. He should really get Sherlock to go design his own adornments – these were just things he found on the fly after reading his brother’s fantasy.

.

.

The skirt is absurd – Sherlock thinks – it barely covers anything. He tries to not enjoy the way Mycroft teases and pinches his nipples to get them to stiffen into peaks – but Sherlock loves having his tits played with by Mycroft’s fingers especially if his brother is being particularly rough – so that ends up being an acting failure. He could barely suppress his moans, and he could have sworn that his brother was struggling not to laugh. Not to mention the equally absurd ringing of the bells from the skirt with every little movement that Sherlock made.

He winces when his brother attaches one of the clamps onto his left nipple and lets the weight of the bell pull at the flesh.

“Please don’t.” He begs just as Mycroft is about to attach the second one. “It fucking hurts!”

_Slap!_

His brother actually hits him across the cheek. The noise is far more shocking than the pain – which is practically non-existent. Sherlock blinks rapidly in response.

“That’s not for you to decide, boy.” Mycroft chastises.

Sherlock lets his brother attach the second one, feeling the wavering ache caused by the bite of the clamps. He tries to keep himself still, not wanting the bells to ring and continuously tug at his tender flesh.

“You’ve been very naughty.” Mycroft states sternly. “I should give you a lashing.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen in horror at the whip, although he is secretly thrilled. “Please don’t, sir.” He pleads, every inch the innocent boy. “I will be good, I swear.”

“How many do you deserve, boy?”

“Four.” Sherlock states after a long consideration.

“I think that’s too little.” Mycroft shakes his head in disapproval. “On your hands and knees. We will make it eight. Four on your back, four on your arse.”

Sherlock hurries to obey – not wanting his brother to add to his total – he doesn’t know if he could survive eight lashes. He tries to ignore the sounds of those infernal bells – he finds it absolutely humiliating and somewhat degrading. That every movement – no matter how little – would be announced to the world at large – or rather to his brother. He lets out a half whimper/moan at the way the bells pull at his tits when he gets on his hands and knees.

_Crack!_

The first blow lands on his upper back, and Sherlock gasps. It burns – almost similar in sensation as the cane – but there’s something indescribably delicious and intense about the pain.

_Crack!_

He arches into the second blow – anticipating that it would strike the opposite side. He almost moans. God – this is better than the drugs…

.

.

_Crack!_

Mycroft watches in amusement as his brother goes from fearing the whip to loving it. He applies a little more force for the last four blows, leaving four symmetrical welts on his brother’s back and another four on the portion of his delectable arse left uncovered by the skirt. And what about that absurd but somewhat erotic ringing noise that emits from his brother every time he strikes him with the whip? It wouldn’t do to laugh at his brother in his current predicament. Sherlock tears up at the sixth blow, and almost seems disappointed when Mycroft lands the last strike.

He lays the whip to the side, and immediately goes to his brother, checking carefully the beautiful reddened marks on Sherlock’s back and bum, before wiping some of his brother’s tears away.

“Would you really sell me?’ Sherlock turns to ask his brother with tear-stained eyes.

“Of course not,” Mycroft leans over to kiss him. “I would buy you. Even if it costs me every single penny. My beautiful boy, you are mine – do you not know that?”

“Can I take this skirt off?” Sherlock asks, further arcing into his brother’s touch.

“No, brother – I want to fuck you with all the bells on.” Mycroft says with a lascivious grin. “My little whore – ringing – every time I thrust into your pretty hole.”

.

.

“You are absurd, brother.” Sherlock is finding it hard to keep a straight face – it is difficult to die of embarrassment and laughter at the same time.

Mycroft spanks his whipped arse, causing Sherlock to yelp loudly. “Indulge me, little brother. Maybe I will even let you cum? Do you not like that? Come to bed with me.”

When Sherlock crawls up the bed, his brother places his collar around his neck. Much to Sherlock’s non-amusement, Mycroft actually clips another bell onto his collar. But, he doesn’t complain when Mycroft unlocks his cage and frees his aching and dripping cock immediately afterwards.

“Mm… no plug up your arse today, brother? You aren’t the tart I thought you were.” Mycroft almost sounds disappointed.

“The virgin, today.” Sherlock replies with a teasing grin.

“Somehow, brother, I do not think virginity works like that.”

Sherlock laughs, but his laughter dies into moans when his brother inserts a lubricated finger into his bum.

.

.

Mycroft takes his time with meticulously preparing his brother as if he was really a virgin – he even uses his tongue to reduce Sherlock into a whimpering, begging and incoherent mess. His own prick is aching unbearably by the time he thrusts into his brother’s welcoming warm heat – Sherlock’s internal muscles suck him in and he enjoys the ringing of the bells every time he fucks into his brother. The is something dirtily depraved about the sound when combined with the slapping of his pelvis against his brother’s arse, and Sherlock’s own delicious whimpers, moans and pleas for more.

He does not think he could hear any sort of bell-like noise without thinking about fucking his little brother ever again.

.

.

Sherlock's skin flushes a deeper shade of red with every ring from those damnable bells – they mock him – their jingling sounds seem to ring a mocking chorus of “Whore! Whore! Whore!” every time his brother thrusts into him. Somehow, the humiliation aids in the tension that builds up within Sherlock as he gets closer to climax. As he is about to come, he feels his brother tug off both the clamps attached to his nipples in one swift motion and he almost screams the house down when the combination of pain and orgasm hit him simultaneously. His internal passage clenches tightly around Mycroft’s cock, and practically strangles his brother’s orgasm and seed out of him. Mycroft collapses against him, panting heavily, causing them both to tumble onto the mattress with a light ringing accompaniment.

“Do you have a bell fetish, big brother?” Sherlock asks, minutes later.

His throat still feels raw from the screaming.

Mycroft shakes his head. “No, little brother, I am just obsessed with you. Although, I don’t think I can ever step foot in a church again in good conscience.”

“Ah, the bells.” Sherlock smirks, imagining his brother trying to hide the sizable tent in his trousers every time the bells of somewhere – such as Westminster Abbey – start tolling.

“I have to piss, little brother.” Mycroft suddenly changes the topic, while giving him a meaningful look.

Sherlock is about to retort with something smart about the toilet being only a few steps away, when he finally realizes what his brother wants him to do. He crawls out of bed and slowly sinks to his knees on the rug, while Mycroft follows him to the edge of the bed. He certainly does not want to sleep on pee, and he doesn’t trust his skills to not spill any of it onto the sheets.

He takes his brother’s soft cock into his mouth, and he quickly feels the familiar sensation of warm urine striking his tongue. He gags a little as he sucks and swallows around his brother’s prick, reflexively spitting some of it out, but for the most part, he manages to get most of Mycroft’s piss down his throat. He uses his tongue to clean the area around his lips, while Mycroft kisses him on the cheek.

“Good boy.” Mycroft bestows another kiss – on the lips – there is even tongue in this kiss. “My deliciously filthy pet. I love you.”

“Is your love for me contingent on my ability to render dirty services for you?” Sherlock asks with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation.

“I love every facet of you, pet – but I must confess that I do have a special fondness for your delightfully filthy and slutty side – little brother.” Mycroft smiles fondly at him, “Now, let’s go take a shower.”


	15. Chapter 15

Slivers of sunlight fall upon Sherlock, illuminating his slumbering and very naked form entangled within the blankets. Mycroft rubs the sleep from his eyes. It is strange to see his brother so still; sex does this to Sherlock – his little brother goes out like a light afterwards.

His eyes focus on Sherlock’s beautiful neck adorned with his collar. One day, Mycroft would love to suck bruises along that swanlike neck, but something simple like this can only remain an elusive fantasy – they had agreed that no obvious marking should be done.

God. He still cannot believe he owns his brother like this. Especially after so many years of lusting and longing from afar. Mycroft delicately pulls up the blanket covering Sherlock’s thighs and arse, admiring the flesh the stripes of light streaming between the gaps in the improperly closed curtains fall upon. With his hands, Mycroft gently parts his brother’s cheeks, mindful not to stir him from his sleep. He lets his fingers caress the skin surrounding Sherlock’s tantalizing hole, before bringing his face closer to lick at the delicate pink flesh – tasting the flavour that is uniquely his brother.

He’s dying to fuck Sherlock again. But he will be gentle, there are some other plans Mycroft has in mind for his brother’s pretty little hole, which still retains its tightness, despite all the extensive stretching that it has undergone in the past weeks. Using some newly bought strawberry favoured lubricant, Mycroft prepares Sherlock’s anus with his tongue and fingers, while his brother’s unconscious body writhes in silent pleasure. Quiet moans of “Mycroft” fall from Sherlock’s plush lips. Mycroft wonders what his brother is dreaming about.

Aligning his cock with his brother’s opening, Mycroft gently penetrates – trying to see how far he could get without waking up his brother. Sherlock’s own uncaged cock is hard and leaking precious drops of shiny precum. The well-trained internal muscles within are already sucking him in deep, and it is really hard to fight his own urge to just simply thrust in to the heavenly heat of his sub.

.

.

Sherlock is dreaming. It is a pleasant one, where his brother is lavishing him with affection, and doing unspeakable things to his arse. Sometimes he wishes that Mycroft and he could just have some regular vanilla sex – simply because he’s had very little of it. He loves all the little games that they play, but he wants his brother to worship him, and he would like to return the favour for Mycroft. It might be hard to do that, considering the unconventional way their sexual relationship had started. He feels himself squirm – fuck, this dream feels too good, too realistic.

And he is so close to climaxing.

Fuck.

He does not want to come without permission.

Dream or not…

So, he fights it.

And then he hears a voice saying, “Shh… brother mine, it’s okay.”

He is awake now, and he feels something warm, thick and hard slip out of his hole, leaving him bereft. Turning his head, he could see Mycroft hovering over him, his blue eyes looking at him with some degree of concern. Oh, hell, his brother had been fucking him while he had been asleep. He flips around and reaches up for his brother’s torso and pulls him down, which Mycroft allows.

“Couldn’t resist, pet.” Mycroft kisses him. “You, sleeping, looking so innocent and sweet.”

“Is this what you mean by wanting access to my body at all times?” Sherlock’s voice is raspy with sleep. “Could you at least finish the job?”

“Is that what you want, pet?” Mycroft asks, leaning forward to kiss him on the cheek.

“Does it matter what I want?” Sherlock replies.

“Of course, it does.” Mycroft proceeds to nibble at a special spot on Sherlock’s neck that is guaranteed to make him wiggle with pleasure.

“Mm… Make love to me, My.” Sherlock dares to voice his sentimental wish. “My Mycroft. My Master.”

His brother doesn’t say anything, but something shifts in his bright blue eyes – something tender and warm; a look just for him. Sherlock is positive that Mycroft has never looked at anyone like this. Mycroft’s large hand reaches up to touch his cheek, tracing the contour of a sharp cheekbone, before following the shape of his jaw.

“We were never the best at emotions, brother.” Mycroft finally says, before sealing Sherlock’s lips with another kiss. There is tongue in this, a gentle tangling and mingling of muscle and saliva. It is so sweet that Sherlock could feel himself tearing slightly – and not because of a physiological response to pain. When they finally break apart, breathless, Mycroft says, “Let me show you – my beautiful boy.”

.

.

God, his brother is crying. Sentiment. Mycroft lets his fingers run down his brother’s sculpted torso, taking detours to all the little hidden areas that he has discovered over the previous weeks that were erogenous zones of some degree. There isn’t a hint of a hair anywhere on his brother’s body. Mycroft knows that Sherlock fastidiously keeps himself hairless and smooth for him, with the exception of the luxurious curls on the top of his head, which Mycroft would never ask him to shave. In fact, he forbids it. He kisses one of his brother’s tight little nipples while pinching the other with his fingers. Some part of his brain reminds him to enjoy teasing his brother’s tits for now, because once Mycroft pierces them soon, he won’t be able to play with them for a while.

He is going to take his little brother apart and ruin him for anyone else (although Mycroft is sure that has already happened).

Even though he had already prepared Sherlock thoroughly earlier, he repeats the process, but this time with more fingers – making Sherlock writhe, beg, plead and moan for something more. He doesn’t penetrate his brother’s hole until Sherlock is absolutely desperate for his cock.

“God, please My – just fuck me.” Sherlock moans, as Mycroft gently strokes his brother’s cock, collecting some of the glistening dew-like drops from his slit and licking at the ambrosia with his own tongue.

“Please!” Sherlock continues to beg – each syllable sounds so sweet to Mycroft’s ears. “I would do anything – just –“

“Anything, brother mine?” Mycroft himself is aching and desperate, but he would take his time and draw this on longer.

“Anything.” Sherlock cries out as Mycroft teasingly rubs his thick cockhead against his brother’s lube-slicked hole.

“You will be my pretty little slave, forever then?” Mycroft smirks, “I should just chain you to my bed, and feed you my piss and semen every day. My good little cock-slut.”

“My… please.” Sherlock is starting to seek friction by grinding onto whatever part of Mycroft he could reach. “Yes, I will be your slave forever… just fuck me.”

Mycroft reaches over for a pillow and shoves it under his brother’s hips, before finally breaching his brother’s hole again – sliding in much easier than the first time. This time, he is looking into his brother’s ever-changing eyes, but the sentiment that shines from them makes Mycroft feel like the most important entity in the universe. It really does not take them long before climax is inevitable – they are both too on the edge to begin with. Mycroft gently grips his brother’s prick and strokes it. And, with a gentle whisper, he tells his brother to come for him.

.

.

“Brother, is this necessary?” Sherlock looks at the large hanging blue enema bag in the bathroom with dubious eyes.

“For what I am going to do to you – I prefer you as clean as possible, pet.” Mycroft presses a gentle kiss on his cheek. “Scat is not something that I am into.”

“Too filthy… literally – brother?” Sherlock says with amusement.

“Completely unsanitary.” Mycroft says as he physically guides his brother to get onto his knees and elbows into the tub.

“This is going to take forever…” Sherlock complains as Mycroft reaches over to remove the large silicone plug from his arse that had been inserted after their lovemaking earlier this morning.

“I will keep you entertained, brother.” Mycroft promises while adding some lubricant to the thin nozzle. “You are lucky, pet – I made all my previous subs do this themselves.”

Sherlock whines when Mycroft carefully inserts the nozzle deep within him. His brother doesn’t reprimand him, but rather ruffles his hair fondly. Mycroft reaches up to open the tab, and Sherlock feels the strange sensation of water entering a place where water usually exits (feces are generally 75 percent water, and 25 percent solid waste).

“Alright?” Mycroft asks him.

Sherlock nods, “Bizarre. Tolerable, though.”

His brother moves to sit at the side of the tub where Sherlock’s head is, and spends his time running his fingers through his curls and massaging his scalp. He almost purrs at Mycroft’s attentions, which partially distracts him from the slow stream of water trickling into his rectum and beyond.

“My belly is distended.” Sherlock observes, looking at the disruption to his normally flat planes.

“To be expected.” Mycroft removes his hand from Sherlock’s hair and moves to caress Sherlock’s swollen belly.

Sherlock sighs.

Minutes pass, before the bag finally empties.

“Clench, brother mine.” Mycroft removes the nozzle from his arse. “Hold it in as long as you can. I would prefer it if you can empty your bowels into the toilet afterwards.”

Sherlock clenches his sphincter as hard as he can, and he shuts his eyes when he feels the cramps afflict his abdomen. He buries his face in his brother’s lap, while Mycroft gently whispers words of affection and encouragement and gently massages his upset belly. The minutes that pass feel like forever.

“I don’t think I can hold it anymore.” Sherlock states rather pitifully.

“A minute longer.” Mycroft continues to rub at his abdomen.

“Please, brother. It might be embarrassing otherwise.” Sherlock replies, his face flushing at the idea of soiling in front of his brother.

His belly’s cramps are becoming absolutely unbearable.

“Go then.” Mycroft looks at the time on his phone. “This should be adequate. Wash yourself afterwards.”

Sherlock stumbles out of the tub with a little help from his brother, and strides awkwardly to the toilet. He plops himself down on the seat and unclenches. Everything comes splashing down, and he cannot even feel the shame of emptying his bowels with an audience due to the sheer relief. It takes a while for all the liquid to leave his body, and he goes back into the tub to clean out his anus thoroughly – wanting to be clean for his brother.

.

.

“Aren’t you a pretty thing?” Mycroft climbs up onto the bed, where Sherlock is casually sprawled on, looking very much like a model of some naughty magazine.

He admires the lacy knickers complete with delicate tiny bows being stretched tightly around his brother’s pelvis, struggling to contain his brother’s generous arse and cock. Mycroft hadn’t bought those – Sherlock probably had brought it himself from Baker Street.

“You hitting on me, sir?” Sherlock inquires, with an air of seriousness.

“Problem, sweetheart?” Mycroft leers lecherously at his brother, while pinching one buttock none-too-gently, causing Sherlock to yelp in a very undignified fashion.

“My owner is not going to like this…” Sherlock says warningly.

“Oh yes he does, very much.” Mycroft lets a finger brush along Sherlock’s hairless arse cleft – freshly shaved from the morning. “You ready for this, darling?” He reaches over to pull out a tunnel plug made specifically for fisting from behind a pillow, where he had hidden it earlier.

“That is… big…” Sherlock gulps – losing whatever character he had been playing seconds ago.

“I will be very careful, pet.” Mycroft presses a kiss on one of Sherlock’s globes – the same one he had pinched earlier. He slides a finger between Sherlock’s smooth flesh and the fabric of his knickers and carefully tugs the fabric down his boy’s thighs. “I promise. If you can’t take it, we can try again some time else. Present your pretty pink hole to me, boy.”

Sherlock gets up on his knees with trepidation, bends his torso, and reaches over to pull his cheeks apart, revealing the pristinely clean hole. Mycroft pours a generous around of lubricant, and carefully inserts his index finger in. It goes in easily, considering the activities that had happened earlier, but Mycroft takes his time to stroke the canal walls and even to brush against the prostate – it would be easier if Sherlock is aroused. He adds a second and third finger quickly in succession, causing Sherlock to moan with the gentle stretch. When Mycroft adds the fourth, Sherlock groans and gasps. He fondles Sherlock’s hairless balls with his free hand and gives a few generous strokes to his brother’s beginning to weep cock. Sherlock moans as Mycroft proceeds to fuck him for a few minutes with his fingers, stretching his gaping hole.

 _In, out, in, out, in, stretch_ (Mycroft fans his fingers out wide.) _, out_.

_Repeat._

“God, my gorgeous boy, can you take more?” Mycroft asks, slightly breathless.

Sherlock makes an incoherent noise but nods slowly. Mycroft can see that Sherlock’s eyes are scrunched up in pleasure, sweat is starting to glisten and plaster his pretty curls against his skin of his head and that he is breathing and panting hard. Carefully, Mycroft presses his thumb against that pink hole and breaches his brother slowly, pushing his hand in until his knuckles are in. He could feel the tight ring of muscles clenched around his hand finally slacken after a few thrusts, and Mycroft withdraws, leaving Sherlock to whimper at the presence of nothing in his fluttering and gaping arse.

“Willing to try now, brother mine?” Mycroft leans over to kiss him, and gently strokes some of the sweat away from Sherlock’s forehead with his non-lube covered hand.

“Please, I just don’t want to be empty.” Sherlock almost whimpers, and Mycroft gives him another kiss.

“You won’t be. God, you are so beautiful like this, little brother.” Mycroft picks up the large tunnel plug, lubricates it generously and gently presses it against Sherlock’s slackened opening. “Breathe. In and out. Good.”

Sherlock inhales and exhales slowly as the plug breaches his canal. The plug is massive, and he can feel the toy stretching him – almost wrecking him, splitting him into two. And, the stretch only grows wider the further the toy enters his arse. Unyielding. Mycroft pauses the penetration every few seconds, allowing Sherlock to readjust, and Sherlock feels like he might pass out from hypoventilation.

“You don’t have to hold yourself open for me, brother.” Mycroft says, permitting his brother to support himself with his elbows. “Come on, breathe. In and out. In and out.”

Sherlock’s breaths grow increasingly stilted, giving way to moans and whimpers as Mycroft twists the plug to further work it into his arse. A beautiful flush blooms on his face, and Mycroft can see sweat beginning to streak down his skin. There is something wondrous in this moment – of his brother’s submission and his trust. And maybe that his incestuous love for his brother is a logical thing after all – Sherlock is quite easily the best submissive Mycroft has ever had – objectively speaking. And of course, the most interesting and enchanting.

The process takes forever. It sometimes takes minutes to work the toy a few milimetres deeper into Sherlock’s arse, and Mycroft refuses to hurt his brother by going any faster. His brother’s moans of pleasure turn into a whimper once another stretch occurs.

“Does it hurt?” Mycroft asks.

“No… I mean… Yes…” Sherlock gasps. “God, I don’t think I can do this, brother.”

“You can. My gorgeous boy.” Mycroft encourages, “We are so close…”

“Oh god…” Sherlock groans when the plug slides a little bit further in. “I am sorry, Mycroft.”

“Sh… pet. Don’t be. Safeword if you have to, darling.” Mycroft gently caresses Sherlock’s pale abdomen, “I won’t be mad, I promise.”

“Fuck…” Sherlock curses when Mycroft twists the plug again in his arse. “My… I want to… God… It’s too much.”

“I know, I know.” Mycroft stops for a bit, letting Sherlock regain some of his equilibrium. “My beautiful boy, I know you want to please me, but you don’t have to if it’s unbearable, my love.”

“Mycroft…” Sherlock breathes, “Just do it, please.”

There is another twist, and Mycroft can see Sherlock start tearing up. He wants to crawl over and kiss all his boy’s tears away, but he will have to do it later. God. His brother suffers so gorgeously for him. If it wasn’t his brother, Mycroft might have considered the use of relaxants like poppers at this stage, but he refuses to give Sherlock any sort of artificial chemical induced high. He watches his brother’s hole become stretched obscenely wide and then finally the widest part slides past the abused muscle. The rest of the toy goes in easily, causing both Sherlock and Mycroft to breathe tandemly in relief.

“Come to me, brother.” The words fall tenderly from Mycroft’s mouth, and Sherlock turns to crawl over to him. Sherlock moans with every motion, the borders of the plug rubbing against the delicate flesh of his rectum, causing his cock to drip just a little bit more each time.

Mycroft kisses his brother first, before reaching up to wipe away the wetness on his cheeks and the crustiness in his eyes. His tongue swipes at mixture of tears and sweat, tasting the salty secretions. “So good for me. How does it feel?”

“I feel stuffed.” Sherlock says, his voice hoarse, “Gaping, open, wide, vulnerable… Will you fist me, now?”

“In a moment.” Mycroft carefully rolls up his sleeves, still dressed in his shirt, vest and trousers. He deliberately grinds his cloth covered cock against Sherlock, “Do you feel what you do to me, brother?”

“God, yes.” Sherlock looks longingly at the tent.

“After I am done with you, you probably won’t want my cock in your arse, anymore.” Mycroft whispers, “I know sluts like you – need bigger and bigger things up your pretty and greedy arses.”

“I always want your cock.” Sherlock bends down to rub his face against his brother’s groin.

“Let’s not get too side tracked here. Present your arse, pet.” Mycroft breathes heavily when he sees his brother’s open hole. His brother’s sphincter muscles spasm periodically against the unyielding toy, desperately trying to clench in order to close. Sherlock hisses in pleasure when Mycroft’s fingers trace the peripheral skin around the plug. And finally, Mycroft slicks his fist and arm in lubricant.

“Brother, please. I want it. I want your fist.” Sherlock pleads, “Fill me.”

“Stay still, pet. I don’t want you to hurt yourself. You know perfectly well that the walls are not meant for this.” Mycroft warns.

And he plunges his hand in, slowly, centimetre by centimetre through the flexible tunnel. Sherlock almost cries in pleasure when Mycroft’s hand first comes into contact with his soft rectal wall, while Mycroft gasps. The sensation is incredibly intense, and there is something so intimate about this; having his brother caress his intestinal walls.

“Should I go further, brother.” Mycroft’s syllables are as ragged as Sherlock’s.

“Please.” Sherlock resists the urge to wiggle his bum, “More.”

Mycroft’s free hand picks up the lubricant bottle and squirts more of the lubrication onto his arm, slathering it up to his elbow.

“God, you are a natural fist-whore.” Mycroft breathes reverently, “Not too many can take this much on their first try. But some definitely do.”

Mycroft stops just before the elbow, feeling the intense sensation of Sherlock’s insides rhythmically hugging his arm and hand. His brother moans loudly when Mycroft’s fingers start stroking the sensitive walls and becomes absolutely desperate when Mycroft clenches his fingers into a fist and start gently fucking the passage, moving in and out.

“God, please, more.” Each syllable is an effort from Sherlock who is making obscene desperate whiny noises that Mycroft is sure he would not forget till his dying day.

Mycroft uses his free hand to palpate Sherlock’s belly, and finds his own fist. He grabs Sherlock’s hand and places it over the area. “This is how deep I am inside you, brother…”

“Fuck.” Sherlock swears as Mycroft begins to focus on fucking his brother with his fist. Mycroft peppers Sherlock’s back and wherever he could reach with kisses. “Please, more, My…” Sherlock’s words become distorted by his desperation, his need and Mycroft carefully provides this need, mindful to use his free hand to anchor Sherlock – a reminder that he shouldn’t move and that he should take what Mycroft gives to him. “My…!” Sherlock’s noises are almost turning into wails.

And finally, Sherlock actually climaxes, and it is incredible how far his ejaculate shoots from his cock and how endless it seems – spurting rope after rope of cum. For all the noise Sherlock was making earlier, his orgasm is soundless, and Mycroft groans loudly as his brother’s walls contract and spasm against his own upper extremity.

“Keep your arm in me, longer.” Sherlock pleads, his voice sounding absolutely wrecked. “Please.”

Mycroft acquiesces, while using his free hand to fumble with his own fly, pulling his own cock out. A few quick strokes, and his own cum is decorating Sherlock’s arse. He stays within Sherlock for a few more minutes, alternating between rubbing, caressing and stretching Sherlock’s walls, before finally beginning the descent back out.

“God, I should keep this plug in you all the time.” Mycroft whispers in Sherlock’s ear.

“To fist?” Sherlock asks.

“No, as my own personal cumhole.” Mycroft replies, “I would rub myself off all day and fill you up until my ejaculate overfills your pretty arse. Maybe I might even piss in it too, brother.”

Sherlock shivers at the suggestion, but whimpers when Mycroft’s fist finally slips out of his hole.

“We can’t do this often, brother. Your arse is going to be sore for a few days.” Mycroft adds, “A special treat for special occasions, perhaps. Besides, my cock would miss your tight little hole otherwise.”

“Alright.” Sherlock sounds kind of depressed, and Mycroft finds himself suddenly worrying about sub-drop.

“Shh… pretty pet. Let me clean you up and feed you. And maybe, I will let you come again.” Mycroft hugs his brother tightly to his chest and gently murmurs affectionate things. “God, I love you, Sherlock.” He whispers. “As my slave, my submissive, my lover, my brother and the consulting detective and scientist. And yes, even the brat as well.”

Sherlock smiles weakly before burying his face into his brother’s chest.

.

.

“Everything okay, Sherlock?” John asks with concern the next day, noting the strange gait his flatmate is displaying.

It is almost as if Sherlock got fucked… maybe too well.

Bloody hell – did his flatmate finally lose his virginity?

“Everything is okay.” Sherlock seems to be lost somewhere in his ever-working mind. But it isn’t a look of concentration that his flatmate wears, but rather one of bliss. As if Sherlock is reminiscing about fond and pleasurable memories. “Better than fine – actually.”

John continues to eat his beans on toast, with rashers.

God, who did Sherlock get fucked by? An image of Irene Adler with a strap-on comes to mind, or maybe some well-endowed masculine stud.

A scene of a pale plush bottom bouncing on top of a sizable dark hard cock then takes over John's mind.

Shit… Don’t get hard… don’t get hard… don’t get hard… John closes his eyes.

He is not gay… damn it!

“Um… John – are you okay?” Sherlock is standing at the kitchen counter, devouring a surprisingly large number of rashers, fried eggs and toast. He even drinks a cup of milk.

“Everything is fine.” John sighs loudly. “Absolutely, bloody, fine.”


	16. Mycroft's Birthday

“Hullo, Dr. Watson – or should I say… John… I mean, we’ve seen each other enough to be on a first name basis – right?”

John drops whatever he had been carrying – his medical kit and a few bags of groceries – and gawks at the unexpected sight lounging casually and nakedly on their couch.

“Irene…” He finally manages to recover his powers of speech. He informs, “His Majesty is not in – he is off to see his parents over the weekend in the countryside. And, what in bloody hell are you doing here?”

“Pity…” Irene looks genuinely disappointed. “I so did want to see… And, I have to be out of the country in two hours or there will be some terribly unpleasant people on my tail…”

“See what?” John is bewildered.

Irene’s eyes sparkle with mischief. She slaps her thigh twice with mirth. “Oh my god, you do not know! And, here I thought… You know what… Never mind…”

John thinks, leaving his groceries forgotten on the floor. This involves Sherlock… Well, this rules out his original thought – that Irene was doing something with Sherlock. It is clear to even John that Irene is only going to be in London for a few hours, before taking off to another country. She is, after all, a persona non-grata in Great Britain.

“Sherlock is having sex!” He suddenly blurts out, and instantly feels stupid.

The damned woman actually grins. “And, I am proud of him. I just wanted to see who has convinced our stubborn virgin to give in.”

“You knew!” John exclaims.

“It is my job to know about sex, John.” Irene smirks enigmatically. She then proceeds to stand up from the couch in her high heels, and strides elegantly to the front door, clutching only her phone. “Well, it has been a pleasure, John – see you next time!”

“Wait!” John calls out on impulse, “Tell me more!”

“Poor, poor, John… left all alone in the dark… Jealous, dear?” Irene looks shrewdly at him. “Let me throw you a bone – take a look in our dear boy’s bedroom. Ta ta for now!” Irene blows him an exaggerated kiss and vanishes behind the flat door.

He takes a step towards Sherlock’s closed bedroom door, but then he shakes his head – as if freeing himself of some strange miasma. There must be reason why his flatmate isn’t comfortable telling him about his newfound relationship – and John really ought to do the decent thing and respect that.

Even though, part of him is kind of hurt that Sherlock had not confided in him. And another part of him is dying of curiosity to see who had caught Mr. My-Body-Is-Just-Simply-Transport's attention in a sexual way.

Sighing, John remembers his groceries and resumes his normal Friday evening activities. After all, he does have a very nice date arranged with a very hot girl in about an hour.

And, goddamn it – he is _not_ jealous.

Nor gay.

.

.

“My pretty pet…” Mycroft runs his fingers through Sherlock’s neatly arranged curls. “Shall we do it now? So, that we can just play after dinner?”

His brother looks nervous. Mycroft tilts his boy’s chin upwards and kisses him soundly. He then searches his traveling bag and pulls out a saran-wrapped metal tray. He leaves it on the king-sized suite bed and climbs onto the bed himself.

“Last chance to back out.” Mycroft adds, as he unwraps the tray.

Sherlock simply shakes his head, and Mycroft finds himself pausing just to admire the sight of his naked brother kneeling with his thighs spread on the neutral coloured bedsheets, adorned only with his collar, and the silvery metal of his cock cage.

_His pretty submissive boy._

Damn, he is a lucky Dom.

Mycroft cups one of his brother’s cheeks, and allows his hand to drift downwards, slowly – caressing Sherlock’s pale skin, before gently fondling one of his nipples. His boy reflexively thrusts his chest out further, seeking more attention, so Mycroft uses his other hand to gently pinch the other nub. Sherlock whines when Mycroft’s fingers retreat, leaving his boy’s nipples erect. Using a fine surgical skin marker, Mycroft carefully marks a dot on the base of each nipple. He puts on a pair of gloves, and rips open a packet containing five iodopovidone swabs, and uses two to sterilize each nipple, causing Sherlock to hiss when the solution is smeared against his flesh.

“Watch carefully, little brother.” Mycroft orders softly as he opens the sealed bags containing needles and the silver rings.

Sherlock whimpers when his brother pinches one of his nipples hard, and he watches as Mycroft pushes the needle through his tit in one smooth motion. It surprisingly does not hurt as much as he had expected it to. His brother gently blots the small amount of blood welling from his pierced flesh with some sterile cloth, while deftly replacing the needle with the jewelry. The same process is repeated with his second nipple, and Sherlock involuntarily squeezes his eyes shut for a few seconds at the sharp pain of the needle – the adrenaline that had dulled the edge of the initial pain had worn off.

Sherlock cannot take his eyes off the shiny silver rings protruding through his slightly swollen and tender tits.

Neither could Mycroft.

“God, you look hot.” Mycroft finally leans forward to brush another kiss against his pet’s lips, before cleaning up. “So gorgeous, pet.” He then says possessively while wrapping his arms around his boy’s slender waist, “Marked and _mine_ – brother mine.”

“Hurt, marked, and _yours_.” Sherlock replies, turning his neck slightly to look at his brother.

“Yes… mine…” Mycroft gives him one more adoring kiss, and his brother’s fingers reach up to caress the leather of the collar that also marked Sherlock as his.

.

.

The small, but highly regarded restaurant has an intimate candlelit atmosphere. Sherlock sits across the small table across from his brother in a discreet darkened corner of the room – hyperaware of his overly sensitive nipples brushing agonizingly against the silky soft fabric of his favourite but tight aubergine coloured shirt and the remote-controlled vibrator that Mycroft had placed up his arse before they had left the hotel. His brother looks fantastic as he always does, in one of his three-piece suits and a tie – an exquisite aubergine one that pairs with Sherlock's shirt.

Sherlock is already dying for dessert in the metaphorical sense, but his brother enjoys fine dinners and alcohol, so alas, here they are.

He makes conversation. “Do we have to go tomorrow…?” Sherlock refers to their parents’ house.

His brother nods gravely, flipping through the menu, “Of course, pet.” Mycroft then puts down the menu and scrutinizes him. “If you behave, I will make it worth your while.”

“I am always perfectly behaved.” Sherlock schools his features to look as innocent and angelic as possible.

“Maybe, these days for me…” Mycroft replies fondly.

“But if any ghastly relatives…” Sherlock begins to say, which Mycroft cuts off firmly by brushing his knees deliberately against Sherlock’s, “Then you ignore them, and walk away, pet. No need to set them on fire… with your tongue. And remember, part of Sunday is ours… pet. And, I swear, one of these weekends, I will take you somewhere nice. Just the two of us.”

The waiter appears, and Sherlock hardly listens as Mycroft orders suavely for the both of them.

Is it normal, Sherlock wonders, to have a yearning to slide down from his chair to kneel between his brother’s legs and to rest his head against his inner thighs? Mycroft would feed him then, touch him, tease him and tell him all sorts of lovely affectionate and depraved things. They usually do that when they share meals together these days. He wiggles his arse in surprise when he feels the vibrations from the toy buzz lightly and pleasantly against his prostate. He barely suppresses a moan when the motion causes one of his nipples to brush against his shirt. His eyes meet Mycroft’s blue ones, which twinkle and dance with mischievous merriment after their waiter had left the table with their dinner orders.

Holy hell, Sherlock does not think he is going to survive this meal.

.

.

The waiter returns, pouring some Chardonnay in both their wine glasses. Mycroft picks up the glass and sniffs; it is a perfect mix of earthiness and sweetness that would go well with the seafood that the restaurant is renowned for.

“Happy birthday, Mycroft.” Sherlock raises his glass slightly; his brother’s eyes shine with an adoration that Mycroft had been dreaming of for many years. It is a delicious combination of affection, lust and desire that makes Mycroft strongly consider skipping dinner and returning back to their hotel suite.

As far as birthdays go, this is definitely his favourite. He grins slightly to himself when he sees his brother subtly readjust himself periodically, due to the lowest setting of the vibrator. There is a minimal chance that either of them will be recognized here, considering how far away they are away from London and the way Sherlock had styled his hair.

And, when his boy moves, Mycroft catches tantalizing glimpses of those freshly pierced nipples pressed against that silky luxurious fabric – god – he still cannot believe that his brother had permitted him to do that to him earlier.

He had always been a possessive man, and these marks of enduring ownership arouse him incredibly. Mycroft finally picks up his own glass and raises it.

They both drink – a toast.

The waiter returns with a wooden sashimi and nigiri boat, containing an expensive assortment of raw fish, crab, shrimp, eel and other assorted nigiri and two pairs of chopsticks. Sherlock brightens at the bounty, and Mycroft’s smile grows wider. He does love indulging his little brother; who loves fresh sashimi. His boy reaches over for the yellowfin with a pair of chopsticks, and Mycroft switches the vibrator to a higher setting and gives him a look of admonishment. Sherlock stops suddenly, as if struck by a lightning bolt, and squirms desperately in his seat. Mycroft switches the toy back to its original low setting, and Sherlock’s posture slackens in relief.

“My mistake, pet, there are rules.” Mycroft permits himself a smirk. “You will ask for what you want. And, whatever you eat will come from my fingers. Understood?”

.

.

Sherlock gulps. He had no idea his brother would be so bold to assert his Dominance so publicly.

“May I please have the yellowfin, please?” He asks quietly, while taking a quick survey of his surroundings.

His brother makes a pleased noise, and Sherlock cranes his neck slightly to accept the tasty morsel of fish dipped with a bit of soy sauce and wasabi into his mouth. Reflexively, his tongue comes out and cleans Mycroft’s fingers.

“If people suspect anything, boy – they will think you are just a pretty kept pet of a rich man.” Mycroft states, causing Sherlock to flush.

“More like slave…” Sherlock mutters darkly, and whimpers quietly when his brother increases the intensity again for a few seconds, causing more precum to leak from his achingly caged prick. “May I have some salmon, Mycroft?”

“Is that wrong, pet?” Mycroft feeds him some salmon. “I thought you were my slave? If I asked you to slip under the table and suck my cock, you would, wouldn’t you?”

Sherlock’s face flushes a delicious and delicate shade of crimson. Mycroft grins; his naughty little brother had thought about it at some point.

“My gorgeously filthy slut.” Mycroft slips his clean hand underneath the table and runs his palm teasingly along Sherlock’s inner thigh.

And the meal continues this way, with Sherlock going slowly mad and delirious with arousal, his cock soaking the flimsy knickers he wears underneath his trousers. He has the odd sensation that everyone in the restaurant knows what is going on between Mycroft and him, even though logically no one could see clearly what is going on. The main course, lamb chops and a mouthwatering slice of whitefish goes the same way, slowly, deliciously and tortuously. Before the dessert arrives, his brother bends over slightly and whispers, “I want you to go to the loo, and take off your knickers. And, bring them back to me, boy.”

Sherlock hesitates, looking anxiously towards the WC. Mentally, his scattered brain calculates how many steps it would take to reach it.

“Now, pet – before the dessert arrives.” Mycroft demands, and Sherlock has no choice but to walk across the room.

.

.

Mycroft watches with great satisfaction as his brother walks back from the loo, with his usual haughty dignity, even though he knows that Sherlock is an absolute wreck within. His boy sits down gracefully, and Mycroft feels something soft and deliciously moist being pressed into his hand – his little brother’s knickers. He lets his brother catch a glimpse of the soiled knickers before putting them into one of his pockets. The dessert arrives – a decadent lava cake with a chocolatey exterior and a hot liquid matcha interior. Sherlock watches his brother slice the small cake, and generously feeds the dessert to him without making him beg.

He could tell that Mycroft is also dying to get out of the restaurant.

Not much talking happens between them here, just desperate eye contact. When the last bite is finally gone, Mycroft simply stands up, throws down more than enough bills to cover the cost of the meal and steers Sherlock out of the restaurant.

.

.

When Sherlock finds himself at the bathroom of their hotel suite, he is much calmer. The walk back from the restaurant to the hotel had cleared his mind, as his brother had mercifully shut off the vibrator. He had just washed out all the product in his hair and had carefully dried his curls.

A knock at the door gives Sherlock pause.

“Do you need a hand, pet? I deduced what your gift to me is…” Mycroft’s voice drifts into the bathroom, “And, I would love to help you put it on.”

“If that is what you desire, brother.” Sherlock replies, and the door handle turns.

His brother – divested of his suit jacket, sleeve garters and tie – walks in. Mycroft wraps his arms possessively around Sherlock’s waist from behind, kisses him on the cheek and admires their reflection in the mirror. “We look good together, brother mine.”

“We do…” Sherlock smiles shyly at his brother, and he feels Mycroft’s hands deftly undo all the buttons of his shirt. His brother carefully removes Sherlock’s shirt, knowing that it is his favourite. They both stare again at the mesmerizing silver rings decorating Sherlock’s chest. Mycroft moves to remove the rest of Sherlock’s clothing, before he starts having a desire to touch those beautifully adorned nipples that are currently off-limits.

“So, what did you bring, pet?” Mycroft grabs the bag that Sherlock had brought in with him. “Heels, stockings, a corset, a skirt, a plug, some lube – some makeup. You can forego the makeup, brother – I do not have a desire to taste it on you – you will be enough of a girly tart with the rest of this.”

Sherlock puts on the short dark swishy skirt and sheer stockings, after which he permits himself a spin, causing his brother to chuckle indulgently. Mycroft catches him by the waist and kisses him again – this time the lips.

“Don’t forget your collar, pet.” Mycroft secures the familiar leather around Sherlock’s neck.

“Never.” Sherlock turns his neck to ask for another kiss from his brother, who provides it eagerly. After they break apart, panting slightly this time – Sherlock offers the corset to his Dominant. “Help me with this?”

“Custom made – brother mine?” Mycroft studies the exquisite dark silk with translucent designs, built upon a frame of unforgiving steel boning. It would show tantalizing glimpses of the skin underneath.

“Only the best for you, Mycroft.” Sherlock breathes gingerly as his brother carefully fits the garment around his torso.

“Hold onto the vanity, darling.” Mycroft warns his brother. “I do recall you saying that breathing was boring at some point in your life – you might want to take that back when I am done with you. Inhale, pet.”

Sherlock takes in a shuddering breath as his brother begins to slowly but ruthlessly tighten the laces of the corset. He groans in some pain as his ribs become constricted beneath the steel. Mycroft fusses with how the corset fits on his person, and Sherlock finds himself increasingly out of breath, as it becomes more difficult to respire.

“Look.” Mycroft commands, and Sherlock looks up. His thin slender body had been transformed into an hourglass figure – the lingerie emphasizes his generous bottom, and the top of the corset ends just below his nipples, giving him an appearance of a bust; it made him look like he had tiny breasts trying to escape from the top of the corset.

“Pretty, gorgeous, pet. My dark angel.” Mycroft casts an admiring eye on Sherlock.

His brother helps him into the tall black stiletto heels, which become much harder to balance on when Sherlock is focusing his energies on maintaining an adequate amount of oxygen to supply his body. He moans loudly when Mycroft turns the vibrator back on, this time to a medium setting, which immediately causes him leak precum uncontrollably.

“Come outside, there’s a better mirror for your viewing pleasure.” Mycroft starts leading his increasingly dazed brother outside. “God, you should see what I see.”

Sherlock almost stumbles and falls, but Mycroft catches him quickly with a dark chuckle, wrapping an arm securely around his artificially reduced waist. “My helpless swooning maiden, hm?” There is a delicious amount of mocking humour in his brother’s remark, that makes Sherlock drip even more.

There is a full-length mirror on wheels in their suite room, and Sherlock almost gasps at the visual he makes in his brother’s strong and sturdy arm. God. He remembers looking at himself at the nascency of their unconventional relationship – and marveling at being collared and naked – but this is something he had never envisioned.

His whole being seemed to have been transformed; he is now truly his brother’s plaything – from the collar around his neck, the thick silver rings in his nipples, his androgynously shaped torso, the heels emphasizing his already long legs – and so on. A flush colours his face and extends down all the way below to his chest; he is moaning and whimpering constantly – a combination of respiring being difficult and his own aching arousal.

He feels both high and desperate.

If he had to come up with a definition of sexual depravity right now, his current reflection in the mirror would be the epitome of it.

“Is your precious cunt wet for me, darling?” Mycroft whispers with an air of lechery, causing Sherlock to shiver, and whatever rational part left in his brain to die simultaneously of both humiliation and laughter at the absurdity of this scene.

His brother pinches him hard, causing him to moan loudly. “Answer me, gorgeous.”

Sherlock can only nod – his face flushing darker with every second that passes.

“Such a shy little thing.” Mycroft croons perversely while the hand not supporting Sherlock slides under the skirt to fondle with his scrotum.

Sherlock reflexively shuts his eyes at the treatment – enduring it; this is merciless overstimulation – and it is killing him… very slowly.

“No, precious – open your eyes and watch yourself for me. See how hot you are?” Utter filth comes out of his brother’s mouth, and Sherlock forces himself to obey.

“Yes.” He whispers; he hangs his head, almost ashamed at how incredibly aroused he is. Fuck. He likes being a man, but the idea of being Mycroft’s girly whore is too tantalizing for him to resist.

“Come sit on my lap, pretty thing.” Mycroft orders as he sits down in a nearby armchair.

Sherlock obediently follows the two steps to the chair without falling over and plops down on his brother’s thigh. Mycroft’s hand immediately goes for Sherlock’s perineum, and Sherlock moans wantonly when Mycroft lightly presses against the sensitive flesh. His brother mercifully shuts off the vibrator and carefully eases the toy out of his hole.

“Does your pretty pussy like to be fingered?” Mycroft pulls out a packet of lubricant from a waistcoat pocket and opens it, dumping the liquid onto his fingers.

“Yes.” Sherlock maneuvers himself so that his brother has easier access to his hole-or-cunt. He then adds, “Please sir, my cunt is in desperate need of being fingered.”

“Good girl.” Mycroft smiles – his smile is not a lover’s smile, but a predator's.

Sherlock flushes again because this is the first time Mycroft uses a definitive feminine gendered term for this variant of roleplay.

Sherlock sighs when his brother’s lubricated fingers sink into his needy hole. The fingers caress, twist and rub teasingly against his prostate – which has been stimulated all evening. If it had been earlier on in their relationship, Sherlock would have long begged his brother to let him come. But he knows now that Mycroft usually already has a timeline in mind for when he wants Sherlock to orgasm, and the only thing that would change his brother’s mind would be the utterance of his safeword, or a negotiation between scenes. And he knows that Mycroft would let him come at least once this weekend, providing that he behaves himself. So instead, he whines, whimpers and tries his best not to fuck himself on his brother’s fingers; Sherlock knows that Mycroft appreciates restraint above many things in a submissive. His eyes meet Mycroft’s, and his brother bends his neck to kiss him – this time a proper kiss between them – sweet and affectionate.

“Are my fingers not enough for you, baby girl?” Mycroft asks, causing Sherlock to flush prettily again. “Do you need something else?”

Sherlock does not hesitate, “Your cock – my needy cunt needs your cock, sir.”

Mycroft actually groans, “Get your Daddy’s cock out now, and ride it, precious.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows rise alarmingly. God, calling his brother ‘Daddy’ is truly twisted. But he obediently unbuckles Mycroft’s belt and starts freeing his brother’s sizable prick from the confines of the trousers. Without too much preamble, Sherlock lines his brother’s big cockhead with his desperate ‘cunt’. They both gasp when the penetration occurs, and he undulates slowly on Mycroft’s member.

.

.

This is unreal. Mycroft thinks dazedly as he watches his little brother fuck himself on his cock as if his life depended on it. Sherlock is gasping – struggling to breathe with the exertion, and Mycroft cranes his head forward to look at the front of his brother – from the prettily pierced nipples, the expensive dark silk of the corset, the skirt hiding his brother’s caged but certainly leaking cock from view and the heels. He turns his head to kiss his brother’s flushed cheek – this time red from exerted efforts. He knows his brother is dying to come; Mycroft also knows that if he doesn’t allow his boy to come today, Sherlock wouldn’t complain – as he would have done weeks ago.

He would endure it.

And Mycroft had been incredibly generous last week – his brother had gotten four orgasms from him.

“Tell me how your pussy feels, being speared by my cock.” Mycroft manages, his own breathing is becoming affected as he climbs closer to his own edge.

Sherlock struggles – trying to delegate some oxygen for speaking, “Fuck, brother – it feels so good.”

“God, you are gorgeous like this, pet. Maybe I should keep you like this – tell me you want that – that you want to be Daddy’s good little girl.” Mycroft filthily whispers into his ear.

Sherlock hesitates a moment, but with great mortification and arousal, he tells Mycroft what he wants to hear.

And, with a grunt, Mycroft spills his seed deep into his pretty pet.

.

.

“Brother, you are absolutely perverse.” Sherlock sighs while lounging on the bed. “Daddy, really? A psychiatrist would have a field day with you!”

Mycroft grins unrepentantly, “You should have seen your face! And then at the end when you agreed that you were Daddy’s good little girl, verbatim – I lost it! Fuck, I don’t think any birthday is going to top this one, brother mine.”

“I am glad that it is memorable for you.” Sherlock nuzzles his face against his brother’s naked but very furry chest.

“I am just happy that you are mine,” Mycroft smiles fondly at Sherlock, while gently caressing the reddened imprints that the corset had left on his brother’s sensitive skin.

Sherlock sighs and leans into his brother's touch; he is still aroused from earlier, and even if he doesn't verbally beg to come, Mycroft can still see the pleading in his eyes. Mycroft simply shakes his head, resolute in his decision, and he can see Sherlock's resigned acceptance in his slackened body language. Instead, Sherlock non-verbally asks for another kiss, which Mycroft happily provides.

“Daddy mine.” Sherlock whispers moments later, his lips close to Mycroft's ear, and Mycroft doesn’t know whether to laugh or be extremely touched at this endearment. But he snorts loudly when Sherlock amends his words, “Perverted Daddy mine.”


	17. Chapter 17

Sherlock groans softly as he wakes up in an unfamiliar bed, amidst silky sheets and a soft warm quilt. He whimpers quietly when his nipple gets pressed against the mattress; fuck, his tits throb, and his sides ache, from the unyielding boning of the corset from last night. The pains simply add to his ever-simmering arousal. These days he is used to waking up with some sort of physical reminder of Mycroft – whether if it is cane stripes, possessive bruises or a sore well-used arse amongst numerous variations. But he loves them; the aches simply remind him all the pleasurable and lovely things his brother and he had done together.

The room is dark; however, he can make out the familiar silhouette of his brother sleeping next to him.

This is the first time he’s awake before his brother since their arrangement began.

Mycroft snores softly. Sherlock quietly crawls over to get a closer look at his slumbering Dominant. Usually his brother sleeps in pyjamas, but today he is bare chested – he can spot some tantalizing fur curl out from beneath the quilt wrapped around his torso. Carefully, Sherlock pulls away the quilt from Mycroft, and reveals his silk pyjama clad legs, thighs and crotch. Before Sherlock is even aware of what he is doing, he buries his face against his brother’s package, rubbing his cheek and nose against Mycroft’s cock and balls. God, it’s addicting. The smell. The feel. The formidable prick of his brother slowly rises and engorges beneath the high-quality silk. Unable to resist, Sherlock mouths at the clothed shaft and bollocks, enjoying the scent of his brother’s arousal.

His brother mumbles barely coherent words. Sherlock sucks harder, getting drool all over Mycroft’s pyjama bottoms.

“Mm… Sherlock?”

Sherlock licks at Mycroft’s covered frenulum, applying the perfect amount of pressure, earning himself a groan from his brother.

“What are you doing?”

The tone forces Sherlock to finally look up at his bleary-eyed Dominant. Despite the sleepiness in his brother’s voice, it is an order that demands a response.

“… Waking you up, Mycroft.” Sherlock tries to convey a bratty ‘isn’t this fucking obvious’ inflection in his voice, but it comes out sounding rather uncertain.

Mycroft sits up causing the quilt to fall completely off his body, finally focusing his attention on his naked sub. His hand reaches for the switch on the table lamp and flicks it on – causing both Sherlock and him to wince. This is the stuff dreams are made of – Mycroft thinks – his collared, caged and pierced brother looking at him as if he is the most desirable man in this universe. There is also a delectable amount of trepidation in his brother’s irises – Mycroft knows that Sherlock knows that he does not have permission to touch his cock.

“Come to me, little brother.” Mycroft keeps his voice soft.

Reluctantly, Sherlock crawls the few steps over to Mycroft’s lap. Mycroft pulls Sherlock over, so that his pet sits on his thighs. His brother avoids looking directly at Mycroft’s eyes.

“It’s not my fault, brother.” Sherlock speaks first.

“Really? What did my cock do, pet? Seduce you in its quiescent state?” Mycroft is amused, more than anything. “Or did you trip, and your pretty mouth conveniently landed on my crotch?”  

“I just want it so badly…” Sherlock buries his face in his brother’s shoulder. “Mycroft…” He mumbles desperately.

“Let me give you a choice, then.” Mycroft says after a moment of thinking. “You can choose to suck me off, or I can remove your cage and you can rub yourself off. I know you are dying to come, little brother.”

 _What kind of terrible choice is that? Is this a sadistic test from his brother?_ Sherlock ponders. His eyes dart towards Mycroft’s generously pitched tent. God, he wants. Desires. Craves his brother’s big, thick cock down his throat. His own prick twitches against the metal of his cage at the thought; these days, his member has learned for the most part how to behave in its confinement. He looks back up at his brother, before eying the bulge again.

“Tick, tock, brother mine.” Mycroft nods encouragingly at him.

Mycroft watches as his brother climbs down his lap, and delicately extends his long pale neck towards his groin. He sighs deeply when Sherlock’s cheek comes into contact with his cock, nuzzling his organ with what he would describe as fondness. There’s a serene, almost blissful expression on his boy’s face; Mycroft quickly files the scene away in a special place in his brain. Sherlock’s hands finally move to pull down his pyjama bottoms – which Mycroft helps him remove. He groans when his brother’s plush lips come into contact with his slit – the bestowing of an affectionate kiss, before suddenly engulfing Mycroft’s prick into the cavern of his heavenly warm moist mouth. Sherlock’s tongue swirls slowly, but with deliberate pressure over his frenulum and shaft. His brother’s fingers move to caress and play with his heavy bollocks.

Fuck, it feels fantastic – Mycroft starts to thrust slightly in his boy’s mouth, needing more.

Sherlock pulls his mouth off his cock with a wet obscene sound. Mycroft is left bereft for a few seconds before he realizes what his slut wants or rather, craves.

“Lie on your back, little brother.” Mycroft orders.

His brother immediately obeys, while Mycroft kneels over Sherlock’s curly head.

“If you can’t take this, pet – snap your fingers.” Mycroft reaches down to caress his brother’s sharp cheekbone. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mycroft.” Sherlock snaps his fingers.

The anticipation builds as Sherlock watches his brother’s cock descend towards his waiting mouth.

“Did I ever tell you how much of a whore you are?” Mycroft asks affectionately just as the tip of his prick comes into contact with Sherlock’s lips.

“Yes, but tell me again, brother.” Sherlock responds, with cheek.

“Let me show you instead, pet.” Mycroft says as he thinks _, lets see how cheeky you are after I am done with you – little brother._ “Why don’t you spread your legs too? Show me what a common slag you are, brother. You know what…” Mycroft gets off the bed and rummages through his waistcoat’s pockets before coming back to free Sherlock’s cock from his cage. “If you can actually get off while being used as cum receptacle, brother dear – consider that a proof of your sluthood. If you can’t, I am locking your sorry prick straight back into your cage – understand? No exceptions. And don’t you even dare think of using your hand – you _will_ regret it.”

“Essentially brother, you are rewarding slutty behaviour.”

Mycroft smirks as he kneels down again. He takes a moment to admire the view; his pretty fucktoy with the sparkling nipple rings, the spread legs and the hard, flushed and erect cock jutting proudly from the smooth hairless crotch. Sinking down, he pushes his cock into his brother’s waiting mouth and slowly inserts the entirety of his member down Sherlock’s open throat and into his esophagus – feeling the muscle squeeze deliciously around his glans – his balls hitting Sherlock’s nose as he bottoms out.

Sherlock struggles to time his breathing with his brother’s thrusts. At the beginning it is simple, Mycroft would bottom out, pull out and give him a second or two to breathe, but then his brother really starts fucking his throat. Mucous and other slimy fluids from within his oral cavity accumulate rapidly, he starts to uncontrollably drool, and he can’t fucking breathe as Mycroft’s thick cock and balls blocks his airway.

And, his brother’s scrotum slaps him on the nose, emphasizing Sherlock’s debasement every time Mycroft is buried to the hilt.

But, god – it is hot – hearing his brother's groans of pleasure each time his cock breaches his throat, smelling the musky aroma of his Dominant’s arousal and even seeing the strands of his own spit cling onto Mycroft’s prick as he pulls out and pushes back into Sherlock’s waiting mouth. And the periods of asphyxia make him feel high; each breathless drought is a new hit – causing Sherlock to fly higher and higher in mindless pleasure.

He can feel the building of pressure within his groin – his scrotal sac tightens; his cock is hard and aching most painfully, but Sherlock instinctively knows that he cannot come like this – he needs physical stimulation.

But this activity is not about him.

This is about Mycroft’s pleasure.

This is what he is meant to be – Sherlock thinks and accepts his place in life as his brother’s throat whore; a human fleshlight – and just takes whatever his brother gives. When Mycroft’s cock fucks his throat again, Sherlock wriggles his neck from side to side, trying to get more prick into him.

“God, brother – you are truly a slut.” Mycroft notices and his words come out breathlessly. He watches his brother take his cock; Sherlock making the obscenest noises of pleasure – low-pitched vibrations that seem to travel up his prick and tingle pleasurably throughout Mycroft’s body. God. Staving off orgasm has never been so hard; Mycroft has never wanted something to last as badly as this. Grunted expletives leave Mycroft’s mouth as he tries to delay the inevitable.

And then his brother tries this incredible swallowing motion that gets his tongue to massage the underside Mycroft’s prick, and it’s game over – Mycroft spills his seed down into his brother’s throat and beyond with a surprised shout and collapses on his braced forearms onto the bed.

“Fuck.” Mycroft pants. “My beautiful slut. God. Fuck.”

Sherlock smiles despite his failure to orgasm and his burning throat; there is a euphoria in knowing that he is capable of taking the British Government and reducing him into this very real man babbling obscenities and deities over him.

“My perfect whore.” Mycroft breathes, “Fuck, what are you?”

Sherlock croaks, “Your cumslut.”

Mycroft actually chuckles, somewhat recovered, “Maybe this wasn’t the best activity for today.”

“Great, I can just say I have laryngitis, and everyone can piss off.” Sherlock replies in a hoarse whisper as Mycroft turns around to face him.

“If I didn’t know better, I would have said you planned this.” Mycroft leans over to brush a kiss on his brother’s lips.

Sherlock winks. “If I was that good at manipulation, don’t you think I would have come already?”

“You chose my pleasure over orgasm, brother.” Mycroft says in a pleased manner.

“Your pleasure is my pleasure.” Sherlock reaches over to pull Mycroft onto his person, wincing slightly as his brother’s chest comes into contact with his piercings.

“I wanted to come all over your face.” Mycroft sighs a tad sadly, “But after that move with your devilish tongue – I couldn’t.”

“Next time.” Sherlock reaches up to caress Mycroft’s messy hair.

Mycroft smiles fondly. “Yes, next time, little brother.”

.

.

“Sherlock! Myc!” Mummy beams at them as they enter the house, “You two are finally here! Slippery as eels, you boys!”

Mycroft winces at the truncated version of his name, while Sherlock winces when Mummy gives him a firm hug.

“Oh! And happy belated, Myc! I hope you did something fun, besides sitting around in your stuffy office all day.” Mummy continues, as she takes their coats and scarves. “You two will have to share Mycroft’s old room today, we have a guest.”

Sherlock and Mycroft turn to look at each other in feigned horror in order to mask their sudden delight.

“Mycroft is going to steal all the blankets!” Sherlock folds his arms against his chest as he complains petulantly.

Mycroft rolls his eyes, “Little brother, you are projecting. If I recall properly, you hogged all the blankets.”

“Boys! You two are old enough to sort these things out yourself without bickering! Besides, I remember a time when Sherlock spent more time in your bed than his own – and I never heard a single peep out of either of you. Now, off you trot! Dinner will be at six. Do not be late.”

.

.

“I bet you slept in here and dreamt of me.” Sherlock turns around to face his brother after the door closes shut behind him. “What depraved ways of having me did you dream of, brother mine?”

Mycroft’s large hands settle roughly on Sherlock’s dark-blue jumper covered shoulders and push him against the wall. The soft cashmere jumper fits his brother loosely, hiding the piercings from the sharp eyes of Mummy. He whispers in his pet’s ear. “What did you know about sex when you were sixteen, little brother?”

“That I liked boys… I am afraid, big brother, that my sexual knowledge was rather paltry back then.” Sherlock replies. He then exclaims, “Teach me, Mycie!”

“Mycie? You know I hate it when Mummy calls me that – pet.” Mycroft sighs deeply at the nickname.

“But I used to call you that.” Sherlock says, suddenly looking wistful. “I still remember.”

“Do you really?” Mycroft gazes seriously at him. Perhaps part of the reason why he deplores this nickname, is that it reminds him of the days where Sherlock and he had been inseparable before their years of cold hostility. “Sometimes I think you have forgotten everything that happened when you were a child. We weren’t so antagonistic then.”

“We aren’t antagonistic now.” Sherlock nuzzles his face affectionately against his brother’s shirt-covered chest. “I loved you as a child.”

“And now?” Mycroft finally moves his hands down to wrap his brother in a hug.

“I love you, Mycroft.” Sherlock presses his lips against his brother’s and brushes his tongue across his lips – demanding entrance, which Mycroft permits. It is a sweet, deep kiss that leaves them both gasping when they break away for oxygen.

“We shouldn’t have sex until everyone has gone to bed, pet.” Mycroft sighs reluctantly.

“I know.” Sherlock sighs. “I want you to make love to me – in that bed – it’s the first bed we have ever shared.”

“Why, brother – I didn’t know you were such a romantic.” Mycroft remarks, his tone is more tender than teasing. “And here I just wanted to do perverse things with you.”

“I think defiling our childhood bed would be counted as a perverse action, Mycie.” Sherlock watches Mycroft wince again, “Or would you rather that I call you Daddy?”

“God, brother – you are twisted.” Mycroft shakes his head while slipping a hand underneath his brother’s jumper to pet the warm soft skin hidden beneath, “Calling me that under the same roof that Father is under.”

“You love it.” Sherlock winks salaciously at him. “You love me!” He then gazes at Mycroft with lust-lidded eyes, “Master.” He says reverently, his voice still raspy, as he gracefully and slowly sinks down to his knees onto the rug that has been adorning Mycroft’s room since forever with his wrists crossed behind his lower back, letting his face brush deliberately against his brother’s expensive attire as he descends.

Mycroft shivers. His brother has gotten way too good at this; how desperate and wanton his boy looks, simply kneeling at his feet. But, alas, it is his responsibility to be big brother and Dominant – it is too dangerous to play here and now, where anyone could walk by or walk in. “Pet, you are lucky that you are so pretty.” Mycroft says with an indulgent sigh as Sherlock envelops his arms around his legs. “You are such a manipulative little shit.”

“I hope you meant slut, brother.” Sherlock deliberately nuzzles Mycroft’s crotch. “You should spank your slut –“

“Oh, brother mine – I will give you what you deserve, tomorrow…” Mycroft steps away when he feels Sherlock’s arms slacken. “Where you can scream and beg and plead all you like and no one, except I, will hear you.”

He smirks when he sees Sherlock shudder at his promise-laden words.

Fuck, Mycroft loves his bratty and slutty sub.

.

.

Sherlock walks with some trepidation back into Mycroft’s room after escaping Mummy’s latest matchmaking attempt with his old childhood friend – Victor Trevor – who is their mysterious guest. Victor had grown up to be a handsome and charming homosexual man, but there is only one man for him. Mycroft had understandably left the table early; Sherlock would have too if Mummy was trying to pair Mycroft with someone with her annoying, unwanted and insinuating comments. Fuck. This is one reason why he disliked visiting their parents so much – Mummy is always trying to set him up with someone.

His brother is sitting on the bed, freshly showered, and typing away at his laptop. Sherlock shuts the door behind him and quietly kneels next to his brother on the floor. Mycroft doesn’t acknowledge him, but Sherlock stays, keeping his head downcast. He should be bored like this, but he is not. There is something grounding about submitting to his big brother in this fashion; he knows that Mycroft would look after him and take care of his needs in return. Challenge him. Teach him more about sex and the pleasures of submission, just as Mycroft had taught him innumerable things when he had been a child.

“Show me your chest, brother.” Mycroft finally speaks, his eyes still focused on the screen.

Sherlock hitches his jumper and undershirt up, and carefully lifts the material over his sensitive half-erect nipples. He arches his back slightly, pushing his chest out further for Mycroft’s inspection.

“Still hurt?” Mycroft asks.

“No, just sore and tender.” Sherlock replies, “I already miss playing with them…”

“It would only teach you restraint, pet.” Mycroft says, now fully turning his attention to his little brother. “It would teach us both restraint.” He amends. God. His brother looks hot as the sin he is; well – if there is a hell, Mycroft is sure they have already got a berth for him. He longs to tug at those rings and torment those nipples until Sherlock is mewling, tearing and howling with both pleasure and pain. But that will have to wait. For now, he enjoys the vision of Sherlock submissively holding up his shirt and jumper, allowing for Mycroft to inspect his property. He asks his brother a few questions regarding the care of the piercings, which Sherlock provides adequate answers to.

“Did everyone go to bed?” Mycroft asks.

“Yes, brother.” Sherlock’s smile is almost shy; almost demure in contrast to his earlier behaviour. “You do know, that you are the only one for me – right – Mycroft?”

“Rationally, I do know that – especially after we signed that contract, pet.” Mycroft sighs, “But, realities aren’t rational.”

“I love you. And that’s that.” Sherlock says, as Mycroft reaches over to run his hand through Sherlock’s lovely thick curls. “Victor was nice, and it was nice to catch up – but he wouldn’t be able to give me what I want.”

“And what do you want, brother?”

“To be owned. To be loved. To be your slut. To be used at your pleasure.” Sherlock states, still holding onto his jumper.

“Come up to my lap, little brother.” Mycroft closes his laptop and leaves it on the nightstand, while Sherlock obeys, climbing up onto the bed and onto his brother’s thighs. “You asked me what I fantasized on this bed years ago. You were seventeen when I first realized I felt unbrotherly things for you, pet. So thin and lanky, with a tongue as vicious as viper, but beautiful. Yet innocent.”

“Teach me, Mycroft.” Sherlock whispers, playing the role of his much younger self. “Teach me how to please you. Please.”

“I really shouldn’t, little brother.” Mycroft shakes his head firmly, following through with their new spontaneous game, “It is utterly inappropriate and illegal.”

“My… please. I would be a virgin forever, otherwise… and wouldn’t that be a pity?” Sherlock looks pleadingly at Mycroft; his eyes imploring. “I do not care for anyone else.”

“One day you might meet someone, and you would not have such thoughts.” Mycroft states.

“It will not happen. I know it.”

“Undress me, then – brother.” Mycroft orders, his voice gentle and tender – and Sherlock immediately reaches for the buttons of his brother’s waistcoat and carefully unbuttons each one. He realizes that this is the first time he has ever undressed his brother besides pulling down the trousers to suck cock – roleplay or not. Mycroft helps him pull off the garment, and Sherlock removes his brother’s already loosened tie, before tackling his shirt buttons, revealing the darkly furred chest underneath. Unable to resist, Sherlock leans forward and brushes kisses onto the revealed flesh.

Mycroft just simply watches his brother at this point; watching the descent of his brother’s curly head going down his chest and abdomen. Had he really been the idiot who said, “Caring is not an advantage”? Scenes are so much more with affection and love; he had been too jaded during all these previous years with his unrequited incestuous love for his little brother.

Sherlock looks up at him, once the last button was undone; there is disappointment on his face. “I am doing a terrible job, if you are thinking that much, big brother.”

“No, brother.” Mycroft replies, “Just thinking about how amazing you are.”

Sherlock looks skeptical, but he continues by divesting Mycroft off his shirt. He looks unsure about what to do next, so Mycroft says, “You can touch me, little brother. You wouldn’t learn otherwise in regard to pleasing me.”

Mycroft sighs as Sherlock caresses his skin and proceeds to worship his body with his lips, tongue and fingers. His brother lightly licks at his nipples, causing Mycroft to groan while using his hand to gently touch and pinch the other – coaxing them both into firm peaks.

“I think you can continue with my trousers.” Mycroft suggests, and Sherlock immediately works to remove his trousers and pants. His brother looks comically shy when confronted with his already-erect cock while trying to remove the pants – which makes Mycroft chuckle slightly – remembering Sherlock’s earlier behaviour pertaining to his organ.

“You can let him out, little brother. He will not bite.” Mycroft grins with merriment. “Here.” He gently reaches for his brother’s hand, and together they pull down Mycroft’s pants. Sherlock stares wide-eyed as Mycroft’s prick springs up. Mycroft then whispers confidentially to his brother. “And if you are really nice to him, little brother – he might spit up some dessert.”

Sherlock breaks character when he unconsciously licks his lips.

“May I –“ Sherlock asks, shyly.

“Go ahead, little brother – I will tell you if I don’t like something.” Mycroft reaches over to pat the soft curls. “Experiment.”

Sherlock places a sloppy and wet kiss on his cock – which is somehow even more endearing than the usual kiss on the slit that his brother performs. He cautiously allows his fingers to curl around Mycroft’s prick, and gently strokes him – his movements unsure and hesitant. His other hand reaches for the bollocks and carefully massages them. Mycroft sighs in pleasure, observing as Sherlock’s actions grow more confident.

“It is also possible to lick and suck him like a popsicle, little brother.” Mycroft informs while thinking about another incident with Sherlock and a popsicle, “Just a suggestion – brother mine.”

His little brother takes the hint and engulfs the tip of his cock in his deliciously warm mouth. Sherlock’s fingers wander beyond his scrotal sac, and actually lightly brushes against his perineum – which is something his brother has never done before.

_Ah, so Sherlock is using this roleplay to push some boundaries that had not been crossed in their usual activities._

Mycroft lets out a moan when his brother applies a bit more suction to his cock, while pressing on the delicate flesh of his taint. He isn’t surprised at all, when Sherlock’s digits lightly touch his hole, and massage the sensitive skin around the opening.

And then, Sherlock pulls his mouth away from his cock and looks at Mycroft. His posture changes, from the uncertain adolescent boy, to the sexually confident sub that he had been earlier. He crawls closer to Mycroft and looks at him imploringly, his irises dark with desire and his pupils are completely dilated. They don’t need words – from underneath the pillow, Mycroft pulls out a folded large towel that he had brought from home in anticipation of the desecration of their childhood bed and a bottle of lubricant. The towel gets spread over the bedsheets. Rummaging through the pockets of his discarded clothing, Mycroft pulls out a key and frees his brother’s cock from its confinement; the member immediately engorges upon his freedom. He carefully undresses his brother, making sure that the undershirt does not get caught in his brother’s rings and pulls down his trousers.

They kiss. Mycroft’s tongue plunders Sherlock’s mouth while his hands caress and stroke the smooth pale skin of his brother. Sherlock’s moans and needy whines are swallowed by Mycroft’s open-mouthed kiss. Despite both of them being terribly aroused, they take their time – Mycroft remaps thoroughly his brother’s erogenous zones, while Sherlock takes on a more active role as well – learning the details of what his brother likes with his own touches and caresses. When they finally break the kiss – they are both breathless. Their eyes meet again, and they both share exhilarated grins, both incredibly aroused by the illicitness of their midnight tryst – barely a few rooms away from where their parents had retired for the night.

Mycroft grabs the bottle of lubricant and squirts some on his fingers, while Sherlock presents his hole, while on his knees and hands. Mycroft’s tongue touches the sensitive pink flesh of his brother’s opening, and he goes to work – preparing his brother in a manner that causes both of them to go insane with need. He already foresees that this coupling is not going to last long at all.

“Fuck me, Daddy.” Sherlock groans, his syllables dripping with neediness.

Mycroft suddenly bursts out laughing, which he quickly smothers with the palm of his non-lube smeared hand. This situation is too absurd; yet it will be a night that he will remember till his dying breath.

“Stick your big cock in me, brother mine.” Sherlock tries again.

“I think, little brother –“ Mycroft crawls over Sherlock, covering his body with his own. “That I want to make love to you – not fuck you as we like to put it so crudely. Ask again.”

“Mycroft…” Sherlock’s plea comes out as a moan. “Please.”

“Please, what?” Mycroft presses a kiss against Sherlock’s jugular, while reaching for a pillow to shove under his brother’s bum. “Tell me.”

“Make love to me… Please. My…” Sherlock sounds absolutely wrecked. And Mycroft slowly pushes inside into the delicious heat of his brother’s arse, while giving his brother another kiss – in an attempt to contain his brother’s delectable noises. His little brother’s cock rubs against his abdomen with each one of his thrusts. Mycroft can tell by the twitches of his brother’s body that he is close, so he reaches down to gently stroke his brother’s oversensitive cock and whispers tenderly, “Come now – little brother.”

Sherlock does, muffling his shout by biting onto his brother’s shoulder – and despite not being a masochist, Mycroft comes immediately afterwards, spilling his seed deep into his brother’s contracting passage. They both collapse onto the bed, utterly spent with Mycroft’s softening cock still buried in Sherlock’s arse.

“Did that live up to your fantasies?” Sherlock blinks at him.

“God, no!” Mycroft smiles mischievously at Sherlock’s slightly crestfallen face, “It surpasses any fantasy that I could conjure up.”

“I think that was the most vanilla sex we had ever had.” Sherlock thinks.

“Problem?” Mycroft asks.

“No. It’s lovely.” Sherlock smiles broadly. “Like all our sex.” He then asks a question that he has been dying to ask his brother for a while, “Would you ever let me penetrate you, Mycroft?”

“Maybe.” Mycroft takes a moment to think about it. He has never had a cock up his arse, despite all of his sexual experiences. And it’s not because of a power dynamic thing – he just never had a desire for it. But for his beloved little brother… “I will consider it, brother mine.”


	18. Chapter 18

“I was smoking that!” Sherlock hisses petulantly, while crossing his arms in annoyance after Mycroft snatches the cigarette from his fingers.

Mycroft puts the cig out against the brick wall with a bit more aggression than necessary and crushes it with the heel of his shoe.

“I thought you had quit, baby brother…” Mycroft’s voice is stern. He patiently holds out a leather-gloved hand.

Sherlock fidgets under his brother’s intense scrutiny, before reluctantly pulling out the small package from his coat pocket and he flings it rather carelessly at his brother. Mycroft catches the box, and before Sherlock could stride out of earshot, he orders; his tone severe, “Don’t you dare walk away. I am not finished with you, pet.”

It is the use of ‘pet’ in this outdoor setting that gives Sherlock pause. Mycroft strides forward masterfully, forcing his brother back against the bricks. With his hands, Mycroft pins his brother firmly against the wall. “Care to tell me what has gotten you in such a strop this morning?”

Defiance radiates from Sherlock’s green-blue eyes. A staring contest of sorts commences, before Sherlock finally averts his gaze from Mycroft’s eyes. His head drops downwards, and he submits. Sherlock looks incredibly vulnerable like this. He pleads, “Can we please go home, Mycroft?”

The annoyance on Mycroft’s features transform into concern, as he breathes quietly, “There you are, my beautiful boy. We will go home after lunch.”

“I can’t stand this.” Sherlock whispers. “Faking this. Our parents… Needing you like this. I am going to do something rash, and you will end up punishing me.”

“I am already going to punish you, brother.” Mycroft says, his warm breath caressing Sherlock’s ear.

Mycroft reaches up to touch Sherlock’s cheek with his gloved hand, after taking a quick glance around to ensure that they are alone. Even the smell of expensive leather is arousing to Sherlock – he can feel his cock harden beneath his trousers; Mycroft had not caged his prick last night, and it does not feel right.

“For smoking, brother?” Sherlock asks.

“And for your attitude.” Mycroft pulls his brother closer to him, before reaching down to fondle and squeeze his brother’s genitalia. “I will not tolerate disrespect from you in private. And – brother, may I remind you that only I am allowed to willfully damage my property – do you understand?”

Sherlock whimpers and tries to pull away from his brother’s rough handling of him, but Mycroft maintains an ironclad grip on his person.

“Answer me, pet.” Mycroft’s tone is cold.

“Yes, sir.” Sherlock is dismayed. He does not want this coolness from his brother; his mind revisits memories of the night before, remembering all the warmth, love and tenderness that Mycroft had so freely given him. He longs to sink onto his knees at his brother’s feet, but refrains from doing so, as that would leave to scuff marks on his trousers that even bloody Anderson could deduce. How can things go so wrongly in a short period of time? There is only so much he can take of his family aside from his brother – and dealing with Victor, who has the most inconvenient crush on him.

He would rather take serious physical punishment over emotional distance from Mycroft.

His brother’s hand strokes his chin before forcing him to look up into his eyes. Mycroft reads the distress in Sherlock’s posture, and his eyes soften. The leather continues to caress Sherlock’s face, and he pushes his face further into his brother’s touches – savouring each sensation.

“We will endure till after lunch, pet. And I promise, I will give you what you need this evening. It’s normal – you know. For submissives to need their Dominants. It is not a weakness – physically, emotionally or even morally. And, it’s my responsibility to tend to your well-being.” Mycroft than looks at him knowingly, “Your poor cock wants to be locked up, pet? Answer honestly.”

Sherlock’s face flushes. He should hate it; he had hated it in the beginning. But now he finds it comforting; it reminds him that he belongs to Mycroft now, and it keeps him from getting into trouble. It is humiliating; however, to have to admit to this; that he needs this. He nods, “Yes, Mycroft. It reminds me of you, constantly.” He then adds, “I need you, Mycroft…”

“Gorgeous boy.” Mycroft rewards him with a smile, before kissing him. It feels dangerous, kissing in their parents’ backyard in broad daylight. “Soon… pet. Let’s go inside, before Mummy starts looking for us.”

Sherlock sighs, but obediently follows his brother back into the house.

.

.

“What do you think of Victor?” Mummy asks, while Sherlock washes a plate.

He proceeds cautiously, “He’s a nice boy, Mummy. But he is too nice for me.”

“Sometimes, Sherlock – nice is what one needs.” Mummy says, but then she abruptly stops and actually scrutinizes him. It is from Mummy’s side of the family that Mycroft and Sherlock had gotten their potent powers of deduction, although she does not employ them very often – preferring to spend her energies on mathematical proofs, line-dancing and charity work. Sherlock finds it unnerving to have his trademark skills utilized against him – who knows what Mummy would be able to read from him! A surprised ‘oh’ escapes from her, as she deduces, “Oh, Sherlock, you don’t mean nice as in personality, but as in –“

“Please don’t finish that sentence, Mummy!” Sherlock says with desperation, while trying to avoid blushing.

“Oh my!” Mummy looks surprised. “It is one of those sadomasochism things? With… whips, chains – leather?”

“Kind of…” Sherlock finds himself wishing that the floor would open up and swallow him whole. This conversation cannot possibly be happening! Out of all the possible times for Mummy to use her nosy and deductive skills, this is the worst. With his luck, the next thing she would be figuring out is that he does all of these things and more with his brother.

“It is all fine – you know – dear. Your Mummy does not live under a rock. I might be old – but certainly not dead. Whatever makes you happy, my boy. And I suppose for these activities, you have a Dominant? Or was it a Master or Mistress?”

Sherlock nods, washing the last piece of cutlery with a flourish – desperately needing to get out of this interrogation. It slips out from his mouth. “A Master.”

“Please do be safe, Sherlock.” Mummy says concernedly. “I am sorry for foisting Victor on you – although he really is here to revisit his childhood days.”

“I am safe.” Sherlock reassures her. “Don’t worry about me, Mummy.”

“But, my dear, I worry constantly.”

.

.

Mycroft finds himself puzzling over the events before he had left his parents’ house, as he opens the door to his own. His brother, a frenetic ball of energy, bounds past the front door and disappears up the stairs. Lunch had been uneventful. Victor Trevor had engaged his brother in some harmless flirtatious banter, and Mycroft simply luxuriates in the enjoyment of watching someone else desire his brother but knowing that they would never have him in the way Mycroft does. But it is what Mummy said to him in private before they had left the house that had left Mycroft scratching his head.

“You will look after him – your brother?”

An innocent question – but Mummy has not asked him this since he had been an adolescent, and Sherlock had been a child. And, the tone she had asked it in seemed to suggest that she had meant it in a non-fraternal way. He had replied:

“Of course, Mummy.”

And now, Mycroft has the uneasy feeling that Mummy knows more than she had let on. If that premise is true, then it seems that Mummy accepts their unique and illegal relationship. God. This world has truly gone mad. But if this is indeed true – then it would make both his life and Sherlock’s easier.

He takes a breath and walks over the threshold.

.

.

Sherlock is waiting for him. His boy is kneeling. Naked as the day he had been born. Mycroft does not think he would ever tire of the sight.

He walks closer, admiring Sherlock’s dark unruly curls, which are starting to get too long again; a beautiful reflection of Sherlock’s inner chaos. Mycroft places his hands on both of his brother’s shoulders, and lets them run down his brother’s torso, caressing the soft skin. Slowly, he lets a finger lightly brush against one of those tantalizing silver rings adorning those pink nipples, and Sherlock lets out a whimper, shivering slightly at the pain and sensitivity.

“You beautiful, gorgeous thing.” Mycroft whispers, as his hands travel lower, and he moves to stroke his brother’s prick, which responds readily; both reddening and hardening with his touch. He reaches over to grab Sherlock’s collar, and he fastens the leather around his brother’s neck, while admiring the reflection of them in the mirror in front of them. “And you are all mine, aren’t you?”

Sherlock affirms, his voice hoarse. “Yes, Mycroft. I am yours.”

“Good.” Mycroft then says silkily, “I believe some punishment is overdue. Tell me, boy – what exactly are the transgressions that I am punishing you for?”

Sherlock swallows visibly, tilts his head further downward and squeezes his eyes shut. His hands, crossed at the wrists behind the small of his back, clench involuntarily. He has never been comfortable with this part of his submission to Mycroft; to account for his actions like a naughty little boy.

Which is perhaps, the point of this entire exercise.

“I am waiting.” Mycroft’s tone is patient.

“Mycroft…” Sherlock whispers. “You are punishing me because… I’ve been naughty and rude. Insolent – but some would say that is my natural state of being.”

Mycroft chuckles gently, before saying dismissively, “Goldfish! But I know better. And, you know it too. You can be lovely and so beautifully behaved.” He then says, “Be more specific. I do want you to learn from your punishments. And you won’t be able to, unless if you know exactly why I am doing this.”

“But I wasn’t just rude to anyone, Mycroft.” Sherlock takes a deep breath. “I was rude to you. And, I damaged your property, without your permission.” He then adds, “I got the cigarettes from Victor. I didn’t buy them myself. But I asked for them… I am sorry, Mycroft. Please punish your wayward pet.”

“Pet, I want you to get up and bend over, with your hands on the mattress, and present your pretty little hole to me.” Mycroft orders softly.

Sherlock rises from his knees and crawls over the few steps to the bed. He rises, gracefully and bends, supporting himself with the bed. Mycroft immediately runs his hands against his brother’s arse, before reaching for a Ziploc bag containing a large ginger root that Mycroft had brought up earlier. He had left it in the fridge to ferment over the last few days, increasing its potency – just in case his boy is in need of some correction. It is already peeled and carved into a phallic shape, with a deep groove to prevent the entire root from being sucked into his pet’s well-trained hole. Mycroft reaches for a pair of disposable gloves and puts them on.

“As you know, pet, I do enjoy the classics. You know what this is?” Mycroft asks as he opens the bag and pulls out the ginger.

The sharp, potent and aromatic smell reaches Sherlock’s nose, and he knows. “It’s ginger.”

“Good boy.” Mycroft allows his gloved finger to gently circle the periphery of his pet’s hole, before inserting an unlubricated digit into the opening. Sherlock grunts as the dry and nitrile covered finger carefully massages his insides, before Mycroft adds another, and scissors – although they both know that preparation isn’t strictly necessary these days.

“Then, you know, pet – that this a Victorian era fix for a naughty boy.”

Mycroft slowly works the ginger into Sherlock’s arse. For Sherlock, it feels odd at first, the moist, but unlubricated organic object going in – but Sherlock shivers when the oils of the root begins to exert their effects.

_Fuck – it stings!_

Sherlock involuntarily shuts his eyes, and somehow, that movement causes him to reflexively clench his sphincter – causing the burn in his bum to intensify. He can feel the ginger going deeper towards his rectum, and a tear slips from one of his eyes; it is beginning to feel like someone had taken a match and set his anus on fire. _God – leave it to his brother to go directly to fermented ginger without trying out the untreated ones._ He struggles to relax his muscles – trying to suppress the motion of pushing the ginger out – as that only made the burning worse.

He yelps, when Mycroft spanks his arse.

“Relax, pet.” Mycroft rebukes.

Finally, the ginger is seated completely in his arse. Mycroft takes off the gloves, sits on the bed, and drapes Sherlock over his lap, with his pelvis resting on a thigh – in the usual spanking position. Instinctively, Sherlock tenses up, but the sharp burning pain forces him to relax – and he cries out when Mycroft’s palm meets his gluteus maximi again and again in an irregular and unpredictable rhythm. His brother is merciless; Mycroft rains his hits over Sherlock’s bum indiscriminately, some areas get abused more than others. His pierced nipples rub against the bedsheets, an agonizing pleasure that serves as a poignant counterpoint to the pain. At some point, Sherlock simply surrenders to the sensations – and eventually the intensity of the ginger root seems to die down a bit, turning into a delicious burn that causes his cock to stiffen once more against Mycroft’s trousers. It is hard to resist rubbing himself off against the wool – and of course, big brother notices.

“Why, Sherlock – I thought this was supposed to be a punishment!” Mycroft exclaims in mock disappointment. “What do we have here, hm, pet?”

Sherlock whimpers when Mycroft’s hand reaches for his prick and strokes it along with his balls. And then he realizes in dismay for the first time in this session that this is a punishment – and that Mycroft never lets him orgasm during those. Whatever his brother is going to do to him will leave him horny and frustrated. Sherlock tries to remind himself that Mycroft had let him come yesterday – but it feels like an eternity ago.

“Lie on your back, pet.” Mycroft simply directs, and Sherlock obeys, sliding off Mycroft’s thighs, and onto the bed. “Would you like to come, boy?”

 _Yes_. Sherlock thinks, but his mouth says, “Only if you wish it, brother.”

“Oh, I know naughty sluts like you – if they had no Dominant, they would just play with their pricks all day – isn’t that right, pet?” Mycroft reaches over and continues masturbating him, while fondling and squeezing his scrotal sac. “Maybe one day we will do that – see how many times you can actually come – boy. An experiment – and I know that you do love your experiments, brother mine.”

“Mycroft!” Sherlock tries to pull away from his brother’s touches – he can feel himself climb closer to orgasm, and he wants his brother to stop frigging him before he reaches the point of no return. And his threshold at the moment is especially low, considering the pleasurable burning going on in his bum, fueling his arousal.

He earns a painful slap to the thigh for his troubles. Mycroft’s eyes stare down at his, reprimanding him; they remind him that nothing is up to him anymore. His brother continues to stroke him, ruthlessly – and just as Sherlock feels himself about to ejaculate, Mycroft suddenly stops.

The look on Sherlock’s face is one of surprise and betrayal, when his hard cock twitches and releases his semen. Mycroft watches with grim satisfaction as the milky white fluid runs down from his pet’s still erect prick in a few streams, dribbling slowly down _. A beautifully ruined orgasm._ His hand reaches down to pat his brother’s now-emptier balls.

“Mycroft…” Sherlock whimpers despairingly in frustration.

His brother simply coats his hand in the ejaculate and brings it up to Sherlock’s mouth, and Sherlock obediently licks off his own cum. Mycroft grabs another pair of disposable gloves, and carefully removes the ginger from his arse, not wanting to get the oils on his hand. And, Sherlock almost lets out a howl of frustration when Mycroft fetches the cock cage from his travel bag. His Dominant is a cruel man. When Mycroft finishes locking him up after quickly cleaning off the sticky cum from his prick, Sherlock finally breaks down and cries. But his brother kisses him sweetly on the cheek, tenderly wipes his tears and whispers words of endearment and love into his ear. Sherlock soaks up every ounce of affection his brother gives him like a sponge, and he knows he will survive this punishment, like the previous one that Mycroft had inflicted upon him.

Mycroft spends the rest of the afternoon, looking after Sherlock – tending to his ginger-oil burnt arse with some aloe, cuddling with him, washing him and spoiling him in every way, except for the way Sherlock desperately wants - sexually. They also spend a great deal of time simply talking. None of their topics of conversation are particularly serious, and neither talk about Mummy – instead, they talk about things like funny stories from Sherlock’s cases and even some stupid incompetent things that people in Mycroft’s office had done recently. His brother makes and feeds him a simple dinner of spaghetti and meatballs and salad, and afterwards, Sherlock leaves for Baker Street with a heavy heart.

It is only when Sherlock arrives home, that he realizes Mycroft hadn’t cum either.


	19. Chapter 19

_Flu season is here_.

John sighs deeply as he tackles his breakfast fry-up of eggs, bacon, sausage, beans and bread; he needs a solid meal in him to deal with the litany of congested noses, achy muscles and coughs that are no doubt waiting for him at the clinic today. Not to mention, the numerable patients that will demand that he prescribe them an antibiotic – as useless as it would be for their viral illnesses.

He sighs deeply again, when Sherlock walks from his room to the kitchen, and proceeds to make himself a cuppa from the water that John had already boiled.

Dark blue shirt, today – John observes. The last few days, Sherlock had been wearing jumpers, much to John’s surprise – he didn’t even know Sherlock owned such items of clothing, considering how much Sherlock enjoys ribbing John about his collection. Granted, Mr. Posh’s jumpers are much nicer than John’s, but still – it’s not something his eccentric flatmate usually wears.

Ah… maybe he ran out of jumpers… John muses.

_Clank!_

He drops his fork onto his plate in surprise when Sherlock turns around. God. Is he seeing things? Does he need his vision checked? Because, faintly outlined beneath Sherlock’s bespoke shirt for a brief moment are two small objects – rings.

Bloody hell – when did he get those done? John wonders, as Sherlock looks at him weirdly.

“Something the matter, John?” Sherlock asks with nonchalance, as he turns back around to fetch an empty plate and helps himself to some of the leftover fry-up in the pan.

“Nothing. Just thinking about something annoying that happened in the clinic yesterday.” John quickly comes up with something, while Sherlock looks skeptical. “Do you have a case on?”

“No.” Sherlock heads back from the stove to his chair, and John sees those mysterious rings again, pressed up against his shirt. “Although Lestrade said he might have something for me, today – he said he doesn’t know if it’s worth my time.”

God, is Sherlock really going to go outside in that shirt? Where everyone could see those! Hang on a second… Sherlock must have been wearing those jumpers, because his usual shirts are too tight, and probably aggravated his piercings – which meant that he got them done over the weekend – on that so-called trip home. Just, what in hell is going on with his flatmate these days?

“Did you really go to your parents’ place over the weekend?” John finally puts together a question.

“Of course, I did.” Sherlock raises an expressive eyebrow.

Before John could ask another question, Sherlock’s phone rings. His flatmate picks up the call – evidently from Lestrade judging by the greeting – and heads back into his room.

John sighs for the umpteenth time, quickly clears his mess – for he’s running late again – throws on his coat and grabs his medical kit before leaving the flat.

_Damn, it should be fucking illegal for Sherlock to walk around with nipple piercings under a tight shirt._

.

.

Sherlock has done this before for a case. He stands in a deserted alleyway, dressed in a tight t-shirt, a pair of tattered jeans that is more hole than fabric and a pair of trendy sneakers. A cigarette or something would make his costume more complete, but he really is not interested in a repeat of Sunday’s punishment. If he got any hornier, he could consider soliciting the services of someone whose profession that he is currently masquerading. He wonders what the punishment would be for that – god – Mycroft probably wouldn’t let him come for a year or something after thrashing him soundly.

He hears the sounds of a car pulling up to the curb and stopping. The opening of a door, the closing of a door and footsteps follow. Ah, a prospective client. An important man in a suit – Mycroft. His brother looks around, as if looking for cameras – although Sherlock knows that he knows that there are none as this scene had taken a lot of planning – before making his way towards him.

“Aren’t you a sweetheart?” Mycroft purrs lewdly as his eyes rake Sherlock’s body appreciatively. “Your mouth looks like it is made to be fucked, darling.”

“Why don’t you see for yourself? 75 pounds for a blowjob, 500 for the night, sir.”

“Now, that’s a robbery.” Mycroft actually rolls his eyes.

Sherlock fights the urge to laugh. “You can afford it, sir.”

“It better be worth the 75 pounds, boy.” Mycroft looks sternly at him.

“Condom?” Sherlock pulls out a packet, but Mycroft shakes his head. “You live dangerously, sir.” Sherlock replies, and Mycroft turns a snort of amusement into a cough.

“Are you always this impertinent? Boys like you ought to be spanked.”

“Cross my palms with 500 pounds, and you can spank my arse all night, sir.”

“Boy, get to work.” Mycroft demands, unamused, as Sherlock sinks to his knees on the uneven hard pavement and immediately works to free his brother’s prick from the confines of his trousers.

He resists the urge to kiss the slit and takes the organ into his mouth. God, he still can’t believe that it is his brother that wants a quick and dirty blowjob in some dingy alley in the outskirts of London. His practiced tongue swirls around the frenulum, and Mycroft groans appreciatively. When Sherlock takes more of the cock in his mouth, Mycroft grabs his hair roughly to hold him in place and starts forcing his prick deeper into Sherlock’s mouth and throat, causing him to gag. His brother starts to ruthlessly fuck his throat, and Sherlock struggles to relax; instead, he chokes, splutters, drools, and gags some more, while tears start forming in his eyes.

“Fuck, you take my cock so well.” Mycroft grunts, “Such a pretty fuckhole.”

His brother abruptly withdraws his cock, causing Sherlock to make a desperate needy noise. Sherlock could barely make out the smile on Mycroft’s face in the dim light.

“You are wasted as a rentboy. Look at you – gagging for my cock.” Mycroft practically croons, and Sherlock flinches when his brother slaps his cheeks repeatedly with his hard, erect cock – transferring a mess of saliva, mucus and precum onto his face. “Show my cock your appreciation, cockslut.”

Any illusion that Sherlock would have any control over this situation has pretty much vanished at this point. Rentboys don’t usually kiss, but Sherlock finds himself bestowing open-mouth kisses on his brother’s prick, needing to satisfy his inner sub’s urge to worship. He licks, sucks and hums around Mycroft’s cock, making use of every trick that he has learned and when his brother emits a telltale grunt, Sherlock pulls slightly away, allowing Mycroft’s cum to land in his mouth and tongue – so he could taste and swallow his reward while his brother braces himself against the grimy brick wall and pants.

“I am not actually a rentboy.” Sherlock croaks. “I am a slut.”

“I can tell.” Mycroft reaches for his wallet and pulls out a hundred-pound note, which Sherlock takes.

“Your slut.” Sherlock amends. “Take me home?”

“Oh, pet… of course.” Mycroft pulls out a handkerchief and tenderly starts wiping away the sticky residue on his brother’s face. “Come on, let’s go.”

Sherlock makes a move to return the money, but Mycroft shakes his head.

“You are my kept slut.” Mycroft states as they both climb into the waiting car.

Sherlock has never felt more like a whore.

.

.

His brother clings to him as soon as they enter the bedroom.

“What is this, pet?” Mycroft asks.

“I want a hug.” Sherlock says simply, his voice still raspy from the earlier throat-fucking.

Mycroft obliges, wrapping his arms possessively around his brother’s slim waist. Sherlock makes a happy noise that causes a funny sensation in Mycroft’s chest. With a grunt, Mycroft picks up his brother, and deposits him onto the bed, a few steps away.

“What ever should I do with you, little brother?” Mycroft wonders out loud.

Sherlock still has his arms around Mycroft’s torso, and he nuzzles Mycroft’s chest, his pupils dilated with desire. “Use me, big brother.” He pleads; Mycroft can see his need to please; his need to submit. “Please.”

“Since you asked so nicely… pet.” Mycroft replies, huskily. “Such a needy slut you’ve become.” He takes in what his brother is wearing, letting his hands run along Sherlock’s dark and skin-tight t-shirt. Barely visible under the shirt, is some lacy material around his brother’s chest with straps – a bra. The sheerness of the bra does nothing to hide the two silver-ringed and erect nubs, which Mycroft lets his thumbs graze against lightly, causing his boy to whimper. “Do your titties still hurt?”

Sherlock shakes his head, while his eyes are still scrunched with pain and pleasure at Mycroft’s light handling, “No, just sensitive. They don’t hurt anymore when you leave them alone.” And then he says, “They stick out. Do you know how many people stared at my chest today, brother? John almost had an aneurysm, Lestrade had this infuriating and knowing smile on his face all day and even Molly – looked like a fish! And, Mrs. Hudson – she looked as if I made her day! No one said anything… Not a word.”

“Which was why I asked you to wear one of your usual ridiculously tailored shirts today.” Mycroft simply grins, while he starts to remove the shirt from Sherlock’s torso. “Everyone should see your slutty tits, brother dear. It is a shame to cover them under those loose jumpers.”

The bra turns out to be made out of sheer purple lace. Mycroft muses that his pet has spent a fortune on lingerie since they’ve gotten together. “You are beautiful like this, you know – pet.”

“Like what?” Sherlock asks, rather coquettishly.

“Fishing for compliments, brother?” Mycroft is amused. “When you are so eager, so desperate to please.” He gently palms his brother’s denim-covered crotch, marveling at the damp spot that had formed. “God, brother – already so wet for me.” His fingers quickly divest Sherlock of his jeans, revealing matching crotchless panties, framing his brother’s locked cock, and balls in an obscene manner. Reaching over for his pet’s perineum, Mycroft gently massages the cute little hole, which is conveniently left uncovered by the panties. He very much enjoys Sherlock’s little breathless sighs of pleasure; he has always enjoyed how responsive his brother is to him, even without his direct touch. “I would very much like my cock in you today, brother. You’ve been such a good boy – what do you want from me – besides an orgasm? You know what, go have a look in the toy box, and bring me back something you want to be used on you.”

Sherlock eagerly springs off the bed – this is the first time Mycroft has let Sherlock pick the implements for a scene – and Mycroft smiles when his brother goes down on his hands and feet and crawls to the box. Sherlock looks lovely in his purple undergarments, contrasting with his smooth pale and hairless skin. His brother kneels to open the box, and Mycroft knows that Sherlock is overwhelmed with the number of choices. His brother eventually brings back two items after much deliberation, a riding crop and a set of silicone anal beads.

“Thank you, pet.” Mycroft acknowledges, before taking the crop into his hand. “On your hands and knees.” He orders, and Sherlock immediately obeys – orienting his bum close to the edge of the bed. “This is a new riding crop, brother – I bought it just for you.” Mycroft brings the tress to Sherlock’s lips, “Kiss it, boy – show it your appreciation.”

His brother obediently presses his lips to the expensive virginal leather, and Mycroft draws it down his boy’s chin, neck, chest – taking a little detour to gently nudge both of his brother’s sensitive nipples, eliciting moans amidst the sighs – the taut abdominis rectus, and down to the groin. He uses the tress to lightly slap his brother’s scrotum – applying just a little more force with each hit – until Sherlock is trying to fight the urge to move away from the pain.

“Beg me for it.” Mycroft is rubbing the edge of the tress against Sherlock’s perineum and hole. “Beg me to hurt you, pet.” Arousal is already leaking into his words. God. He hasn’t really cropped his brother yet, and Mycroft is bloody hard already – considering that he had taken the edge off by coming barely an hour ago.

Sherlock is a fucking aphrodisiac.

“Hit me, brother.” Sherlock is already breathless. “Please crop your sub’s slutty arse.”

Mycroft lets the tress run against his brother’s caged cock, causing Sherlock to almost leap up. His brother is dripping, making a puddle on the bedsheets.

_Smack!_

He crops his brother’s pert arse cheeks and inner thighs, starting gently and gradually applying more and more force until his pet’s pale skin turns an angry shade of red. Sherlock initially arches into each hit, enjoying each sensation, before trembling and even sobbing towards the end. As one final stroke, Mycroft strikes his brother’s perineum, causing him to howl his agony.

“Shh… pretty pet. I am done.” Mycroft crawls back to the bed and applies kisses liberally on his brother’s tear streaked face. “You took that so well for me.” He croons softly, while Sherlock collapses onto the mattress. “I will have to give you a raincheck on the beads. I need your hole, boy. Take my cock out and ride it.”

Despite Sherlock’s agony and tears, he immediately gets to work, unfastening Mycroft’s belt and trousers with a single-minded determination usually reserved for interesting cases. Mycroft passes him the lubricant, and Sherlock slathers it on Mycroft’s painfully hard cock, before impaling himself on it without any preparation. Mycroft groans when his prick is suddenly engulfed in the deliciously hot and impossibly tight heat – and his brother rides him with a hungry urgency, his sculpted muscles contracting and relaxing rhythmically with each undulation while his locked cock bobs up and down, leaking precum onto Mycroft’s skin. Fuck, he’s never seen a more beautiful and debauched sight – and Mycroft has seen many.

“God, you feel so good.” Mycroft breathes, “My beautiful fucktoy.” Unable to resist, Mycroft thrusts up into his pet’s hole. “Take it… take it, my slutty boy.”

The sounds his brother makes are absolutely pornographic. Desperate mewls, grunts and harsh breathing can be discerned from the noises his brother makes; of course, Mycroft knows Sherlock cannot come like this.

And, that makes it exponentially hotter.

And finally, he shoots his load into his brother’s arse. Sherlock collapses against him a few seconds later, and Mycroft can feel the his cum ooze out of his pet’s well-fucked hole.

“Lick your mess off me, brother.” Mycroft orders, when he recovers his ability to speak.

Sherlock does, lapping up the precum and the cum that had leaked out of his arse. Mycroft plans to let his pet cum in a bit, but he wants to see what Sherlock would do in the interim. There is a rather resigned look on his brother’s face, after he finishes his task, but he simply crawls and snuggles against Mycroft’s side. He doesn’t beg or plead for release, even though Mycroft can see that he desperately wants it.

“Come closer, pet.” Mycroft says gently, and Sherlock does. He reaches up to gently caress his brother’s cheek and chin. “Do you want to cum, pet?”

Sherlock nods once. “Yes, brother – but only if it pleases you.”

“And, if it does not?” Mycroft feels a little cruel to be asking this, but he does so anyways.

His brother takes a deep breath and scrunches his eyes tightly for a moment, before saying, “Then what I want is immaterial.” He then says, “I want to please you, brother.”

“I am pleased with you, boy.” Mycroft says. “Proud of you. You’ve come a long way in these weeks. My beautiful sub. I love you. Never doubt that.”

A gleam appears in Sherlock’s blue-green eyes. “Even when I am naughty?”

“Of course. I’ve always loved you in some way.” Mycroft admits. “Brother, I didn’t come since the blowjob you gave me on Sunday morning. And, I really did not want to punish you when we got back – but I had to. Your behaviour was deplorable. But I can give you what you deserve now, pet.” Mycroft reaches for the key hidden in his waistcoat pocket and he quickly frees Sherlock’s prick.

“Can we cum together?” Sherlock asks, his mood has perked up dramatically.

“God, three times in one night?” Mycroft knows he could probably get it up again, in another half hour. “Whatever you want.”

“Frottage? We’ve never tried it.”

“Then, that’s what we will do – pet.”

.

.

It feels so fucking good. Sherlock sighs, as Mycroft’s large hand strokes both their lubricated cocks together. His brother’s motions are unhurried, even though Sherlock is struggling with trying not to spill too soon – considering how on edge he had been all evening. If it were not for the cage, Sherlock would have came while Mycroft had been fucking his throat in that desolate alleyway.

Mycroft kisses him, gently but insistently demanding entry into Sherlock’s mouth with his tongue, and the two muscles entwine sweetly together. His brother’s free hand roams around Sherlock’s sensitive sides, before pawing at his purple lacy bra – slipping his hand beneath the underwire. His fingers lightly tease at one of the piercings, the combination of sensation causes Sherlock to moan into his brother’s mouth.

When they finally break apart to replenish their supplies of oxygen, Mycroft increases the pace of his strokes, and Sherlock focuses on not coming.

“Please.” Sherlock finds himself begging, and his brother only smiles.

“Soon, pet.” Mycroft says. “Show me your self-control, love. You can do this.” His brother reaches over to his other nipple, to gently play with it. Mycroft then asks, “Would you consider doing a scene with an audience, pet?”

“Have we not done that, brother?” Sherlock responds, between breathy moans.

“With someone you know.” Mycroft has a small smirk on his face.

God. Who? Sherlock wonders.

“Anthea.” Mycroft adds, while maintaining the pace of his strokes. “She’s a Dominant. It will be her birthday in a bit. And, she would absolutely love it.”

“To see me be the opposite of insolent brat? And she knows? About us?”

Mycroft chuckles, “Of course she does. She knew from the beginning. And, that too. She finds it hot.”

“What, the idea of us?” Sherlock almost squeaks.

“Oh, little brother. There’s an exhibitionist in you – I can tell. And, Sherlock – I love to show off what I have to people – and unfortunately, our situation does not allow us such luxuries.”

“I could tell.” Sherlock can deduce that Mycroft had ordered him to wear one of his tight shirts today to show off his marks of possession. It was an innocent enough display, with the added bonus of some titillating humiliation. He then looks worried, “You wouldn’t share me?” His mind revisits the terms of their play contract.

“Of course not.” Mycroft looks appalled. “People can see, but they cannot have.”

“Then, can I visit you in Whitehall and suck your cock, brother?”

“God, brother – “ Mycroft frigs their cocks together with some desperation. Neither speak for a minute, filling the air with their pants and groans of increased need and pleasure. Just as Sherlock feels he couldn’t hold on any longer, Mycroft orders, “Cum for me, pet.”

They both spill their seed together with soft grunts; Sherlock’s being more of an explosion. Mycroft offers breathlessly, “I can even fuck you in my office. Anthea can arrange that.”

“Have you done that before?” Sherlock can’t help but to feel irrationally jealous.

“No.” Mycroft says, “I’ve only brought subs to the Diogenes office, but never my Whitehall office. There’s a few special rooms set up for activities in the club, you know... Don’t be jealous, pet. You are the only one that I’ve collared, ever. And the only person that I have ever loved. We will make plenty of experiences together – I promise.”

“Mycroft…” Sherlock whispers, and his brother leans forward to kiss him again, communicating his verbal promises in a more passionate, physical language.

.

.

Sherlock is gone tonight, so John opens the door to Sherlock’s bedroom, and switches on the light. He can count one hand, the number of times he had gone into his flatmate’s private sanctuary over the years. There is definitely something going on with Sherlock, and John has been rather slow in putting it all together, especially if even bloody Irene Adler – who doesn’t even reside in Great Britain anymore – knows. Unlike the rest of the places Sherlock occupies in the flat, his room is well-organized and immaculately clean. There is the periodic table hanging on the wall. At first glance, Sherlock’s room looks unchanged from all the other times John had come in here.

John walks in further to the nightstand, where there are some index cards scattered beneath a simple table lamp. On them are written quotes:

“ _Submission is not about authority and it is not obedience; it is all about relationships of love and respect. – Wm. Paul Young”_

“ _A Master has to master the mind of His slave and not to torment his body - only then He's worth the most precious gift that was given to Him - the slave himself_! – _Sir Peter Mclaughlin_ ”

“ _Submission is not about being used, submission is about being of use. Submission is not about what is done to you, submission is about what you do for others. – Unknown_ ”

There are other quotes on the cards, but John is intrigued by an index card in pink, which has words and phrases crossed out, and is clearly a card that Sherlock had spent a lot of time pondering over – looking a little bit more worn and dog-eared than the others.

“Submission is giving myself up for _His_ pleasure, where _His_ pleasure and mine are synonymous.”

John could deduce from the markings on the card that Sherlock, over a decent period of time, had struggled with defining what submission is. Bloody hell, Sherlock is a sub! He couldn’t imagine his flatmate as one – Sherlock is restless, impulsive, brattish, manipulative – surely a handful for any Dom. But it made sense – Sherlock is on the receiving end for punishment, there was that display of deep-throating that Sherlock was no doubt practicing for his very male Dom and those damnable piercings!

Whatever relationship Sherlock is in – it seems to be serious.

Fuck. John could see Sherlock kneeling in his mind’s eye – god – his flatmate would be all lovely pale skin, rounded bum, well-defined muscle and with a decent sized cock. Not to mention those rings pierced through Sherlock’s little pink nubs. He could almost imagine Sherlock taking in a cock with his plush lips and beautiful long throat – fucking hell!

What is he doing?!?

John takes a deep breath.

Remember Watson, you are not gay. You like women! Think boobies, wet pussies, pear-shaped bodies – pert rounded arses – Fuck!

As if he is standing at the doorstep to hell, John turns tail and flees out of Sherlock’s room, slamming the door loudly behind him.


	20. Chapter 20

_Brother, I need you. SH_

_Please. SH_

_Master, please. SH_

Mycroft rubs at his tired eyes as he puts his phone back down on the mahogany. It has been a long day, filled with reining in the various misguided members of Cabinet, sorting through several convoluted intelligence reports and sitting through a tediously boring meeting with the visiting American ambassador. The latter being possibly one of the dullest specimens of goldfish to ever swim in the political fishbowl. There is another important meeting ahead with the Chinese, but Mycroft reaches for the landline and dials Anthea.

“Please reschedule my meeting with Mr. Chen to tomorrow. I am afraid that I am needed elsewhere, Anthea.”

Anthea, ever the reliable, replies affirmatively – she even adds, “I will arrange a nice night out for Mr. Chen and his personal assistant.”

“That would be lovely. Thank you.” Mycroft hangs up the phone.

 _Diogenes._ _MH_

The reply is quick.

_Thank you. SH_

This is the first time Sherlock has directly asked for him like this. Mycroft resists the urge to call Anthea again and ask for a surveillance report of his little brother’s activities for the day.

He would let Sherlock tell him.

.

.

“How may I help you, brother?” Mycroft asks rather coolly to test out the waters, when his brother barges into his office and slumps into the visitor’s chair – looking absolutely awful.

Sherlock appears more crestfallen at his question, and Mycroft makes another attempt – in a gentler, more fond fashion. “What do you need, pet?”

“I need to be punished, brother.” Sherlock hangs his head, keeping his eyes fixed on the grain of his desk. “Please, Mycroft.” Mycroft can hear the absolute desperation in his brother’s words.

Something has gone wrong, very wrong.

A potential danger night.

“Come to me.” Mycroft orders; his voice is both tender and firm, belying his worry and concern.

Shakily, Sherlock obeys – and Mycroft can see at once that his brother is in his post-case state – hypoglycemic and exhausted.

“Kneel.” Mycroft gestures to the tasseled dark-coloured cushion hidden underneath his desk.

His brother does, slowly sinking his knees into the soft plush cushion. Some of the agitation in Sherlock’s body dissipates with this familiar ritualistic action, and Mycroft takes a moment to examine his sub. His brother’s knees are spread a shoulder-length apart – exposing himself, his forearms are crossed behind his back at the wrists over the small of his back while his head is tilted forward.

Stunning.

Is the word that summarizes Mycroft’s assessment. Sherlock is not the first sub he has had kneel under this particular desk, but he certainly will be the last and most memorable one. At the end, there really is only so much a Dominant can do to train a sub, the rest lies in the sub’s willingness to learn, please and trust their Dominant. And, for Sherlock – Mycroft reflects, his desire to please also comes from a foundation of love and affection. It has been absolutely humbling and gratifying to see his little brother grow as a submissive over the last few weeks under not only Mycroft’s tutelage – but love. Of course, Mycroft has had subs in the past that had feelings for him – feelings of which that he did not completely return; there had been a few that Mycroft had been at the most, fond of – but no more than that. Under those circumstances, Mycroft could only offer his guidance and mentorship – but no more.

“When was the last time you ate, pet?”

Sherlock fidgets a bit – knowing that the answer would not please his brother – before responding. “Yesterday…” He then frowns. “No, I only had tea and coffee yesterday – the day before.”

Mycroft sighs deeply. They will have to talk about this. Instead, he reaches for the landline, dials a quick extension number and orders some food. As he places the receiver down, he asks, “The last time you slept?”

“Catnap, yesterday. A full night’s sleep – three days ago… Brother… please…” Sherlock’s tone is pleading.

“The last time you washed yourself?”

“Before I came over here…”

“We will have to discuss this later, boy.” Mycroft states, internally shaking his head at the fact that his brother has enough presence of mind to prepare himself for him, but not to look after his own basic needs.

“Now, tell me. Why do you need to be punished? I am not one to inflict punishment without an adequate reason. Although… I am glad you didn’t provoke me to get what you wanted. Other subs have done so in the past.”

The look on his brother’s face could be interpreted as: _Damn, why didn’t I think of that_. But Mycroft quickly adds, nipping the idea in the bud. “Do not let that give you ideas, boy. It has never ended well… For the sub – that is. Now – tell me – I am waiting, pet.”

“Brother… I failed.” Sherlock’s straight back slouches with his words. Distress pervades every syllable. “Two people are dead because of me. A mother and a child. I was too slow. Too stupid. It was obvious at the end…”

“Pet…” It comes out as a tender whisper from Mycroft’s mouth.

“The husband kidnapped them and drowned them in a pool. A simple domestic case – and I… I – fucked it up.” Mycroft can see that his brother is on the verge of tears. He grabs the collar of Sherlock’s shirt before his brother collapses to the floor and pulls him forward towards him.

Sherlock nuzzles his face against Mycroft’s inner thigh seeking comfort, while Mycroft runs his fingers through his thick luxurious curls.

His brother cares too much. About the goldfish. No doubt some grieving member of the victims’ family had taken some of their anger and grief out on his brother verbally – Mycroft could see it in Sherlock’s posture.

High-functioning sociopath – his arse.

“I am not going to punish you, pet.” Mycroft states, while carefully caressing his brother’s sensitive scalp. “I am sure you did your best. We are all human, brother – and we err. Even I do. But I will look after you – you pretty, needful thing. Do you trust me to give you what you need?”

“Yes, brother.” Sherlock replies, his voice muffled by Mycroft’s trousers. “Please, Master…” His brother is already starting to fall into that space of submission.

“Strip for me.” Mycroft orders, and his pet responds immediately, his beautiful long fingers going up to the buttons of his light-grey shirt.

Inch after inch of gorgeous skin is laid bare; a feast for Mycroft’s eyes. When all the buttons had been undone, Mycroft reaches over, and pulls the shirt off his brother, letting the expensive material drift down to the ground. His fingers reach for the taped gauze pads that cover his pet’s pierced nipples, protecting them during the active phase of cases – and gently rips them off.

“You are beyond beautiful, pet.” Mycroft allows lust to creep into his voice. “Did you know that? How gorgeous you are to me?”

His brother preens at the praise, he replies rather dreamily. “I am glad you find me beautiful, Master.”

“And, so obedient. My good boy. My slut.” Mycroft adds affectionately, “Take off the rest of your clothes.”

Sherlock quickly removes his shoes, socks, pants and trousers. He is unashamedly naked in Mycroft’s presence, a far cry from how he had been when Mycroft had initially introduced to him to the art of submission; his only adornments the silvery metal wrapped snugly around his cock and in his tits.

Mycroft loves it; the confidence that Sherlock exudes.

There is a knock at the door that temporarily detracts from the scene.

“Come in.” Mycroft moves slightly away from Sherlock, who starts to look somewhat nervous.

Mycroft nods in approval as an attendant brings in a tray bearing all the trappings of a generous afternoon tea and leaves it on the desk. When the door is safely closed once again, Mycroft simply says, “I know you find eating tedious, love, but you will eat. Is that understood?”

.

.

The only thing Sherlock wants in his mouth is his Master’s cock; the only thing he wants to swallow and ingest is his Master’s cum. He would even happily take his Master’s piss. He desperately wants to be of some use. Instead, he whines slightly when Mycroft’s fingers bring half of an egg salad sandwich towards his lips which earns him a tut of disapproval. The bread touches his lips, and Sherlock reflexively parts them.

“Eat, pet. You cannot subsist on cock alone.” There is a teasing lilt in his brother’s voice.

 _Bet I could._ Sherlock thinks rebelliously, while slowly taking a bite of the sandwich invading his oral cavity. The sandwich is pulled slightly away from his mouth, when Sherlock had taken a modest bite. He chews and swallows, reluctantly.

“Let’s put it this way, my slutty boy – no food, no cock.” Mycroft says, while Sherlock dares to look up – and he sees the fond look on his brother’s face. The digits of Mycroft’s empty hand gently stroke the skin of Sherlock’s chin and cheek. There is an application of pressure on his jaw, and Sherlock is forced to open his mouth again for another bite.

The afternoon tea continues like this, a bite, a gentle touch – and Sherlock’s body finally realizes that it is hungry at some point, making the process faster. He manages to consume a few of the finger sandwiches (roast beef, salmon and cucumber and a caprese), some fruit (grapes, cubes of pineapple, a few slices of a mandarin), some tea (carefully given) and half a slice of rich and moist chocolate cake (shared with his brother).

“Now, there’s just something I need to finish, before I can pay my full attention to you, little brother.” Mycroft says, while wiping his food-stained hand with a thick napkin from the tea service. “Make yourself comfortable between my legs, pet.”

Sherlock pulls the cushion closer into the vee of his brother’s slightly spread thighs, and he rests his head on the seat of the chair, his nose against the proximal portion of Mycroft’s thigh, the top of his head brushing against his brother’s mouthwatering package; the beloved organ is already partially erect. He can smell the comforting scent of his brother, and when Mycroft starts typing away, Sherlock finds the exhaustion of the week catch up with him and he drifts off into much-needed sleep.

.

.

Sherlock wakes up in an unfamiliar room, his skin against silky sheets. There is a dim, but warm glow illuminating a fraction of the space – likely candlelight. He blinks once, almost disbelieving what he is seeing with the limited illumination. An X-shaped cross (a St. Andrew’s) stands a few steps away, assorted benches and other contraptions stand ominously (awaiting perhaps their next victim) in the shadows – and there is even a human-sized cage at the foot of the bed.

And these are only the things that Sherlock can make out.

A veritable dungeon.

A perfectly comforting location to wake up in.

It appears that he is alone in the room. He rubs the sleepiness away from the corners of his eyes. It isn’t a time to panic – Sherlock deduces; he had been carefully tucked into the blankets, his limbs aren’t restrained, and he knows that Mycroft would never let something truly terrible happen to him. He crawls out of his cocoon, and his mouth goes dry when he sees the device immediately next to the old-fashioned four-poster bed. It looks suspiciously like a… fucking machine. _God. Imagine being fucked by one of those…_

“Having naughty thoughts – pet?”

Sherlock makes a sound that sounds suspiciously like a squeak when he feels a strong arm encircle his waist from behind. Lips press the lightest of kisses against his sensitive nape. Another hand tenderly caresses his chest, and carefully teases his nipples with faint nudges to his rings. He tenses a bit at the sudden onslaught.

“Relax.” Mycroft whispers. “Submit to me, little brother.”

Sherlock closes his eyes and tries to suppress the sighs of pleasure that escape.

“Don’t hide your reactions from me – pet. There’s a reason why I have seldomly gagged you.” Mycroft’s wandering hand joins his other one around Sherlock’s slender waist. “I love how you react to me. God. You are the stuff fantasies are derived from, boy.” Mycroft cranes his neck to nuzzle against the side of Sherlock’s face. “I guess you are wondering where you are. This is the room adjoining my office – hidden behind one of the bookshelves. A few years back, I participated in the training of many submissives – as a hobby – and most of that would happen here. So… this room became a playroom of sorts –“

“A dungeon, brother… a sex dungeon.” Sherlock interrupts, and Mycroft merely laughs.

“You exaggerate, brother.” Mycroft says with a small smile. “Anthea is the only other person who uses this room these days. But, most of the time – this place gets used as a normal bedroom by me.”

“I was worried for a moment.” Sherlock admits.

Mycroft grins. “Only a moment, pet? And then you found something that caught your eye? Horny little brother.”

Sherlock twists in Mycroft’s grip, sighing again in pleasure/pain when his stimulated tits brush against his brother’s naked chest. He buries his face against the junction of his Dominant’s head and neck, noting that Mycroft had just taken a shower – smelling of the soap and aftershave that he normally uses, with an underlying scent of something earthy and masculine – something distinctly Mycroft.

He doesn’t care about anything else in the room; he just wants his brother.

An irrational jealousy flares within him – he can see it in his mind, all those nameless and faceless submissives that have had the privilege of his Dominant’s attentions in this room long before Sherlock had his dormant sexuality awakened. Mycroft’s arms tighten possessively around him, and the sweetest of kisses is bestowed upon his forehead; it is a splash of refreshingly cool water against the fires of envy. His mind then remembers, all the words and actions of love and affection that Mycroft had given him throughout the last weeks, and he knows on a rational level now that those other subs may have had his brother’s attention, but certainly, not his love – nor his collar.

 _His collar_. Sherlock thinks – he feels naked without it. Mycroft’s fingers stroke his back and sides, before moving up to encircle his neck – and Sherlock wonders what it might feel like if Mycroft applied just a little bit more pressure. An arousing thought – his Dominant controlling not only his pleasure, but his baser means of existence – oxygen.

Breathing would be more interesting.

“Kneel for me, my lovely boy.” Mycroft’s order is a caress.

It is reflexive now. Sherlock slides off his brother’s lap and assumes the submissive’s pose. He takes pride in all of these positions, making an effort to show off ~~his transport~~ Mycroft’s property in the most enticing manner. Sometimes, he practices in front of a mirror when John isn’t home. And, the effort is worth it. Mycroft’s eyes are upon him, scrutinizing, but Sherlock can feel the unhidden lust and desire emanating from them.

It is intoxicating. Addictive.

“I know you want to be used, pet. You want to feel useful. You want to be punished to atone for your perceived sins.”

“I do.” Sherlock hangs his head downwards, the memories from earlier in the day begin flooding his mind. “Please, Master – use your unworthy whore.” His plea is almost a whisper. Continuing his self-deprecation, Sherlock keeps talking. “What is the point of a Consulting Detective that cannot deduce things in time…? Fuck. Brother… the girl was only four…”

“Sherlock…” There is unrestrained and indescribable emotion in Mycroft’s voice. “Sherlock…” Mycroft’s arms encircle him again. “My beautiful boy. My _worthy_ sub. My beloved.”

Sherlock sighs into a kiss his brother presses tenderly against his lips. He wants to cry.

His brilliant Dominant thinks he’s worthy of absolution.

“I will use you – pet. But not the way you think.” Mycroft continues. “It gives me pleasure to give you pleasure, little brother. Do you trust me to give you what you are due?”

“Yes, Master.” Sherlock nods.

“What is your word, pet?” Mycroft’s fingers are caressing his sensitive sides.

“Redbeard, Master.”

“I am going to make you forget – pet. Nothing in this world matters, except for you and I. I will turn you into an empty vessel for me to fill with what I wish.”

Mycroft bestows one last kiss to Sherlock’s slightly kiss-swollen lips, before the softest silk brushes against Sherlock’s cheek. It is tied snugly around Sherlock’s head, plunging him into darkness.

“Lie down on your back – boy. Spread your arms and legs for me.”

Cuffs are fastened snugly onto Sherlock’s wrists and ankles – and he realizes that his brother had restrained him spread-eagle on the bed.

.

.

Mycroft kneels in front of his restrained brother. This is always the hardest part – to know that one cannot take away all the pain and suffering of one’s little sibling, lover and submissive. His brother is too good for the rest of the world – the goldfish. It is _them_ that are unworthy. Using his talents for what Mycroft had always thought were unworthy problems – but it doesn’t matter – as long as Sherlock is happy.

He sighs quietly, before taking a quick admiring glance at his brother’s helpless form.

A Greek god chained both physically and by his own need.

He gently strokes Sherlock’s inner thighs with his fingers, before frigging his brother’s caged cock, eliciting both sighs and moans. His brother's noises turn into pained protest when the flushed flesh of his prick grows against the metal bars. Fetching the key, Mycroft deftly frees his pet’s prick from confinement, watching the organ engorge and spring upwards.

Sherlock shouts and lurches against the restraints when Mycroft suddenly closes his mouth around his glans. He skillfully applies his tongue on the ventral surface of his brother’s cock, lapping at the frenulum. Gradually, he takes the prick further in his mouth, enjoying the musky flavour, and the sweet and salty taste of the drops of precum that drip from his pet’s slit. With a hand, he slowly begins to fondle and squeeze Sherlock’s full balls. He savours each sound of pleasure that his brother emits. Eventually, Sherlock starts fighting against the inevitable orgasm. Mycroft is pleased with the reaction, but this is not the game he is intending to play with his brother today. He lets the cock slip out of his mouth – coaxing a sigh that is parts disappointed and relieved from Sherlock, before informing, “You have my permission to cum as you like, little brother.”

.

.

Mycroft sucks Sherlock to the point of orgasm, where Sherlock comes with a cry and spills his seed down his brother’s throat. He sinks into the bed – as far as the restraints would allow him – sated. But his Dominant is not done with him. After a cum-filled kiss, Sherlock hears the snick of a lubricant bottle opening, and a cold lube covered digit penetrate his hole. He moans when Mycroft gently caresses the walls of his anal canal, and his noises only grow in intensity when the digits rub on his prostate. Sherlock could feel his cock grow interested again at the proceedings.

His brother chuckles with amusement. “Ah, the benefits of being young… and slutty.” Mycroft replaces his fingers with a slender object which Sherlock deduces is a vibrator.

Sherlock yelps “Oh fuck!” and would have leapt off the bed had it not been for the restraints when Mycroft switches the toy on.

“Language, pet.” Mycroft reprimands, but there is a fondness that warms a portion of Sherlock’s needy soul.

Sherlock is beyond coherent speech and what comes out of his mouth is a garbled stream of moans and incomprehensible pleas. He writhes and twists against his unyielding restraints. His mind whites out in absolute pleasure when Mycroft cleverly angles the toy to touch against his prostate.

.

.

His brother looks amazing like this. Reduced to this wanton, needy mess. Mycroft thinks as he watches Sherlock attempt to hump the air in a futile attempt to find his second orgasm. His pet’s cock is flushed and hard again, with droplets of precum glistening at his slit. The pleas that fall from his plush lips become more frantic and fractured. And suddenly, Sherlock’s back arches with his neck thrown back in reckless abandon and he comes again with a scream, splattering a small amount of milky fluid onto his torso.

“Beautiful.” Mycroft switches off the toy and pulls it out from Sherlock’s hole. “It is lovely to know that you can come like this, little brother.”

Sherlock goes slack, and Mycroft frees him from the restraints. His little brother makes noises of protest when Mycroft maneuvers him onto his hands and knees, still panting from his second coming.

_Smack!_

Mycroft delivers a sharp spank to his brother’s arse, causing Sherlock to gasp. “None of that now, pet. You wanted to be of use, don’t you?” His hands reach to part Sherlock’s arse cheeks, revealing the lubed hole.

“Yes, Mycroft, I want you to use me.” Sherlock rasps. “I am sorry – I want to be good for you. Brother…” A tear falls from the corner of Sherlock’s eye, escaping from the blindfold. “Please, continue…”

Mycroft’s heart twists in his chest. There is something heartbreaking in the way his brother speaks. He knows his brother takes his submission seriously – but it seems like the day’s events have taken a serious toll on Sherlock’s self-confidence – not only as a detective, but in the other facets of his life. Before this change in their relationship, Mycroft has seldom been there when his brother had been confronted with an emotional problem – as opposed to a physical problem (the overdoses and the on-the-job injuries). In fact, Dr. Watson had texted him earlier when Sherlock had been asleep.

_Sherlock hasn’t come home. It may be a danger night for him. JW_

He had texted Dr. Watson back, saying that Sherlock is safe according to his surveillance.

“Please… Mycroft… I will be better.” Sherlock’s voice is almost a whisper; the words full of self-reproach. “Use me, fuck me, hurt me – it doesn’t matter…”

“Pet, come here.” Mycroft changes his plans on the fly. Originally, he had wanted to try and fuck his brother into a third orgasm, but a good Dominant would always put their sub’s needs first. His own achingly hard cock would have to wait.

There is a pained expression on Sherlock’s face – Mycroft can tell that Sherlock knows that he has changed his plans.

“Now.” Mycroft imbues authority into this monosyllable.

Sherlock immediately obeys, and crawls into Mycroft’s lap with some help. Mycroft uses a finger to gather the few tears that had escaped from his pet’s lacrimal ducts, and he licks the salty fluid from his digit – tasting Sherlock’s tears.

“I will give you what you need, pet.” Mycroft gently caresses his brother’s hair. “I will give you oblivion.”

.

.

Sherlock is cuffed onto the St. Andrew’s cross – his abdomen pressed up against the wood – as his brother tilts the cross, forcing him to stand on the tips of his toes. Drool is already starting to leak from his mouth; Mycroft had fastened a ball gag around his head, parting his lips. The gag absorbs his moans when he feels a large lubricated plug being worked into his arse without any preparation. Mycroft does not stop at any point, not giving Sherlock a chance to adapt. The toy stretches him out mercilessly as ridge after ridge breaches him – filling up his empty, needy hole. He writhes agonizingly in his captivity, his knuckles turning pale as he grips onto the wood of the cross with his fingers. He sags in relief when the widest point of the plug penetrates his arse, and the rest of the toy gets sucked in by his internal muscles. His hole feels incredibly stretched, violated and vulnerable.

But, before he could think any further, an incredible pain blooms at his scrotal sac – if Sherlock hadn’t been restrained, he would have collapsed in agony. He yells soundlessly when the second clamp is applied to the loose skin of the other side of his scrotum. There is the sound of chains, and Sherlock feels a slight pull at his nipples. Experimentally, he flexes and extends his body, causing himself to almost double over in both anguish and pleasure; Sherlock realizes that Mycroft had looped the chain attached to the scrotal clamps around the chain hooked onto his piercings. God. His brother is a cruel and clever man.

The sound of Mycroft unfastening his belt and dropping his trousers reaches Sherlock’s ears. The leather of his brother’s belt is drawn across his spine, and Sherlock involuntarily shivers, causing frissons of pain and pleasure from the subtle tugs of the chains tormenting his sac and tits.

“You are doing so well for me.” Mycroft whispers in his ear. “Gagged and bound. Clamped and plugged. Completely at my mercy. For my use. Show me your safeword, pet.”

Sherlock wiggles a peace sign with his fingers against the solid wood of the cross.

“Good boy.” Mycroft croons.

_Smack!_

Sherlock tenses when the belt strikes his back – a line of burning pain beneath his shoulder blade, causing him to writhe as the chains pull tortuously at his flesh, and the plug shifts agonizingly and pleasurably – rubbing slightly at his prostate. His brother continues to land blow after blow against his back, buttocks and spread thighs. At some point, Sherlock gives into the thrashing, accepting each stroke Mycroft has deigned to give him. He wants it; he needs it – each blow is a benediction; each lovingly given lash chasing away the darkness that had threatened to consume him. Eventually, tears course down his face and Sherlock breaks down sobbing – releasing all the tears he had been dying to shed for two lives tragically cut short through cruel circumstance.

The different conflicting sensations all starts to coalesce; the confusing stimuli all go straight to his groin, causing his cock to react with interest again.

The sound of the belt dropping onto the floor is hardly noticed by Sherlock; his mind is flooded with endorphins. Mycroft pants behind him and he feels the plug being slowly pulled out – the sensation of emptiness is jarring – even noticeable under the influence of these endogenous chemicals. He gasps around the gag when Mycroft suddenly fucks into him and he twists and turns against the apparatus supporting him in response – shockingly close to the precipice of orgasm.

He doesn’t really register what his brother’s grunted words are, but he does hear the important ones telling him that he is allowed to cum. Sherlock tries hard to resist – to keep himself from falling into the abyss – wanting to prolong this incredible sensation for as long as he could. But Mycroft’s thrusts become more targeted, rubbing him so perfectly that it hurts to hold on and Sherlock comes again – for the third time, releasing a modicum of seed. Mycroft fucks him brutally through his orgasm – chasing for his own completion, before pulling out and spilling his cum onto Sherlock’s whipped bum.

Sherlock slumps against his restraints, feeling completely drained – mentally, physically and emotionally. The cross is tilted back to its original position, the cuffs released from Sherlock’s ankles and wrists, and Sherlock falls to his knees at his brother’s feet – temporarily forgetting about the chains that tug mercilessly at his tormented body. Mycroft removes his gag and blindfold and gently massages his sore jaw – Sherlock is unused to gags – before lightly pressing his lips to Sherlock’s to initiate an affectionate kiss.

“I am going to remove these clamps, brother.” Mycroft warns, and Sherlock shakes his head in dismay – knowing that the pain – which currently wavers in a sinusoidal pattern – is going to be terrible. His brother then adds. “Well, they are coming off, whether you like it or not.” Mycroft reaches for the clamps, and Sherlock cries out when both clamps are removed at once, permitting blood to recirculate. “We will leave that chain for now – your tits have healed enough to take this kind of pleasure… I do have a need to piss, brother – I want you to tug on the chain – gently.”

Sherlock obeys, carefully grabbing the silvery chain in his right hand and lightly tugs at his already sensitized and hurt tits. He gasps at the sensation, while he feels warm piss from his brother’s cock hit his xyphoid process and stream down his muscled and lean abdomen and over his own oversensitive cock and balls. He moans, delighting in being drenched with piss. Without thinking about it, he leans forward and catches the golden stream of piss in his mouth – greedily and thirstily drinking his brother’s essence and savouring the sharp and sweet flavour. Mycroft aims slightly higher, and the last of the urine splatters his face, highlighting a depth of Sherlock’s depravity.

“I told you.” Mycroft kneels down on the floor. “That you would come to crave such a treat.”

“You’ve been eating pineapples.” Sherlock says in a faux-accusatory tone.

“No, pet – you are just a filthy, depraved little slut.” Mycroft pulls Sherlock towards him, caring not one whit about the piss soaking Sherlock’s body. “My favourite kind of slut.” Sherlock watches as Mycroft carefully examines his body, checking for any signs of injury – including his hole.

Sherlock turns towards his brother and hugs him firmly. “Thank you, big brother.” He whispers. “I needed that.” Slumping down into his brother’s strong chest, Sherlock mumbles, “I don’t know why I need this so much.”

“My lovely boy.” Mycroft presses a kiss against Sherlock’s curls. “It is always my pleasure. And, of course you need it – sluts like you need to be used by their Dominants. Sherlock… It goes both ways, I need this too. I need you – pet. And, I am very happy and pleased that you came to me today.”

“Can I spend the night with you?” Sherlock asks.

“Of course, little brother.” Mycroft smiles. “Now, let me clean you up – I would like for us to go home and sleep on our bed.”


	21. Anthea's Birthday

Purrs resonate from Sherlock as Mycroft massages shampoo into his scalp and curly locks. Sherlock had missed this – his brother’s touch. His Master had been away for two weeks for some annoying international summit, and it had felt like forever.

“Have you been good while I was away, little brother?”

Sherlock nuzzles his brother’s knee – Mycroft is sitting on the ceramic tiled bench built into the shower wall, while he himself kneels at his brother’s feet on the shower mat. “Yes, Mycroft.” He murmurs, sighing into his Master’s touches.

“Rinse.” Mycroft gently orders, and Sherlock shuts his eyes when he obediently ducks under the water pouring out of the showerhead. His brother starts applying Sherlock’s expensive conditioner to his curls. Sherlock wonders if he should be more embarrassed, having his Dominant look after him like this; however, it doesn’t. It reminds him of his childhood, where big brother had helped him with various tasks – big and small – including the washing up. He moans slightly when Mycroft soaps up his sensitive sides, and squirms when his brother deliberately brushes against his nipples. They are still so bloody sensitive, causing Sherlock to reflexively twist around to avoid the teasing touches. He hopes that the hypersensitivity would resolve soon – he longs for Mycroft to abuse them – his tits – as he had done before the nubs had been pierced.

“Still so sensitive…” Mycroft says more to himself. He then says, “This is not meant to be arousing, pet.” There is a fond and amused twinkle in his eyes.

“I could wash myself. It would be more efficient.” Sherlock retorts.

“Let your Dominant do this, pet.” Mycroft says silkily. “It would be unacceptable to display my most precious asset in a substandard condition.”

God. His brother’s voice. Sherlock longs to rut his hardening flushed cock against Mycroft’s leg. Instead, he mutters darkly, “Heaven forbid I missed a spot…” It earns him a hard pinch near one of his axillae; he moans, the pain going directly to his nether regions.

“You are such an impertinent boy.” Mycroft states, both fond and reprimanding. “Stand up, pet.”

Sherlock obeys, and Mycroft starts to lather Sherlock’s dripping cock and balls. Desperate little whines escape Sherlock’s throat, especially when his brother starts rolling his swollen and full testicles in his hand.

“When was the last time you came?” Mycroft asks.

“The day you left…” Sherlock suddenly feels abashed. Mycroft had given him the key to his cage while he had been gone, just in case of an emergency – and had even given him permission to cum midway – but Sherlock had abstained, it felt wrong not to cum without his brother being involved. He had even documented it in his journal along with the rest of his assignments – which he knows Mycroft has read. His brother has a pleased look on his face. Sherlock groans when his brother starts washing his hole, with a thoroughness that was driving him mad.

“I am touched, pet. Should I let you cum, my impertinent boy?” Sherlock gasps when Mycroft rubs his fingers against his perineum.

“Oh, god, please.” His hips are already jerking, desperately needing to grind his cock against something.

“Do you know what impertinent boys get, brother?”

“No… Master.” Sherlock barely manages, when Mycroft’s fingers circle his periphery of his hole – this time his digits are coated with waterproof lubricant.

“They get fingered in the shower.” Mycroft says with mischief as his fingers breach Sherlock’s hole. A litany of moans escapes Sherlock’s mouth as he is forced to brace himself against the wall, over Mycroft. Another hand tortuously works on his cock and scrotal sac, and Sherlock bites his lip – attempting to stave off orgasm.

“So, should I let you cum then? Or, should I let Anthea see how wanton and desperate you can be? She would love that – seeing you beg and squirm.”

Sherlock shakes his head as Mycroft continues to mercilessly finger him, alternating among caressing his walls, rubbing his prostate, scissoring and even finger-fucking him. He is already mortified that someone he knows – aside from his brother – is going to see him naked and submissive – but begging in front of them? That might be too much. His treacherous cock twitches in his brother’s hand, and Mycroft smiles – a tad dangerously. “You love it. You have always liked to show off… little brother. Genius needs an audience – you said.” His brother’s voice grows tender. “My lovely, slutty pet – show us what a filthy boy you are this evening, and I will reward you tomorrow.”

“Please, Mycroft… please… Master…” The pleas fall unrestrained from Sherlock’s lips as he feels himself approach orgasm. He scrunches his eyes up and whines in frustration when Mycroft stands up from the bench – leaving his hole bereft.

“Sh… pet.” Mycroft proceeds to rinse the conditioner out of Sherlock’s hair, while taking the time to tenderly caress his face. “You are so beautiful like this. Come on, let’s dry you off – pet.”

.

.

Mycroft leads Anthea to the living room. His PA is dressed smartly, in her dark blazer and pencil skirt. Her heels click rhythmically on the wooden floors. They’ve done this before, with each other’s submissives – but this is different. This is Sherlock. The sub that Mycroft wants to keep, forever.

They turn into the living room – and as always, Mycroft’s eyes fixate on his little brother. All that lovely pale skin, his collar around his neck, the metal of his cock cage and nipple rings, the freshly washed dark curls and that patience! His once-restless brother who could never stay still – whether mentally or physically – waiting for him on his knees. He remembers how Sherlock had looked when they had left the shower – so wanton, so needy – his cheeks flushed – his pupils blown. But his brother appears apprehensive now, keeping his gaze towards the floor.

“Oh, sir – he’s lovely.” Anthea genuinely exclaims. “I would have never imagined…”

“Neither had I.” Mycroft acknowledges as he sits down on his favourite armchair. He then orders, “Pet, to me.”

Sherlock obeys, crawling without hesitation to a cushion at Mycroft’s feet.

“Please, sit – Anthea.” Mycroft gestures to the adjacent armchair.

“You’ve trained him well.” Anthea offers a smile as she makes herself comfortable in the armchair.

“He wants it.” Mycroft states, unable to keep the affection out of his voice. He keeps one eye on his boy; he can tell that Sherlock is dying to touch him and is absolutely gagging for his cock. Instead, he entangles his fingers in his pet’s hair, and directs his head to rest against his inner thigh. Sherlock sighs – nuzzling his face against his brother’s trousers, relaxing visibly under Mycroft’s tender caresses.

“It being your cock, sir?” There is an amused smirk in Anthea’s tone.

“Well, that’s certainly something he wants.” Mycroft agrees. “He wants to be a good sub, above all. There are many things he taught himself, of his own volition.” Mycroft sighs, thinking about the long conversations Sherlock and he had when they were working on their play contract. Even now, the contract still evolves as they further explore the dynamics of Master and submissive together. “I am very proud of him.”

He nudges Sherlock’s head again, this time gently pressing two of his fingers against his boy’s plush lips. Sherlock takes the digits into his warm mouth, swirling his tongue around them – sucking at them as if they were Mycroft’s cock. Mycroft moves his digits in and out, fucking his boy’s mouth, going deeper with each thrust, causing Sherlock to gag when his fingertips brush against the back of his throat.

“Sir, fingers are one thing, but what about something… more substantial?” Anthea leans over to fetch a toy from the toybox placed between the two armchairs.

Mycroft looks at the dildo and says, “Mm… he can take something larger. This one’s a proper slut. Isn’t that right, boy?”

.

.

Sherlock closes his eyes and mentally counts to three. God. To humiliate himself like this in front of Anthea. But, he doesn’t have time to dwell on this thought – his brother is looking expectantly at him – waiting for an answer.

“Yes, Master – I am a proper slut.” Sherlock replies, feeling his cheeks redden.

“I thought so. Who do you belong to, slut?” The dildo in Mycroft’s hand had been exchanged for a longer and thicker variant, complete with a suction cap at the base.

“You – Master!” And Sherlock barely has any time to prepare himself before the large dildo gets shoved unceremoniously into his mouth. The thrusts start off shallowly and Mycroft gradually works the toy deeper into his throat, causing Sherlock to gag and drool – struggling to relax his out-of-practice throat to accommodate the dildo. It burns and Sherlock could feel tears forming in his eyes and streaking down his cheeks as Mycroft continues to throat-fuck him.

“Good god, he’s dripping – nasty boy.” Anthea remarks – Sherlock had temporarily forgotten about her.

_Slap!_

Mycroft slaps his cheek – more noisy than painful. “Relax your throat, boy – take it. Take it!”

He tries; he seriously does. But it’s not easy – he tries repositioning his neck – stretching it out in order to take in more of the mercilessly long dildo – which is even longer than his brother’s sizable cock. And it fucking hurts. He doesn’t even dream of using his safeword – he had asked for this. Written down all his nasty fantasies about being used in his online journal. Asked Mycroft to push his limits. Told Mycroft not to stop even if he begged for it with tears in his eyes. Eventually the toy finally bottoms out – and his brother slides it all the way in and out a few times with minimal resistance before finally removing it.

“Clean up your mess, boy.”

Sherlock promptly ducks down and laps up his precum on Mycroft’s floor.

“What’s next, sir?” Anthea asks, and Mycroft replies. “I was thinking that we should dress him up a bit? Anthea – I know how you like to dress your boytoys – so I thought we could do something similar.”

.

.

“Breathe.” Mycroft orders, as Sherlock inhales deeply.

A bespoke aubergine corset – the same shade as his favourite shirt – trimmed with black lace, is being mercilessly laced around his torso. Sherlock watches in the mirror as his already slender waist becomes even tinier with his brother’s efforts at crushing his ribs together; his breaths become shallow – it hurts to take deeper ones. Mycroft had laced this corset tighter than the previous one Sherlock had worn. Fuck. It’s tight.

“God… look at you darling.” His brother’s voice is imbued with lust.

And, Sherlock does, looking at the matching garter belt set that holds the sheer black stockings up, and the lacy black gloves that cover his hands, wrists and forearms. His caged cock peeks out from beneath the belt – which essentially functions as a pair of crotchless panties. Mycroft’s hands grab his waist – his two large hands barely span the entire circumference. The wandering hands slide up, cupping the flesh swelling over the rim of the corset. His brother’s thumbs immediately go for his already erect pierced pink nipples, gently teasing them simultaneously, causing Sherlock to moan.

“Watch your face, pet.” Mycroft instructs, continuing his teasing torment of Sherlock’s tits. “You are fucking gorgeous like this.”

He sees it. How his eyes go unfocused. How his facial features become slack.

_Smack!_

Mycroft delivers a sharp blow to one of Sherlock’s buttocks, and Sherlock gasps, with his head thrown slightly back. Yes, he sees what Mycroft means – about how responsive he is to his brother’s actions.

“Pet, on your hands and knees.” Mycroft is already helping him down into position.

Sherlock gasps again, when his brother parts his arse cheeks apart and something wet and muscular breaches his hole – Mycroft’s tongue. Fuck. He cannot believe his big brother is licking his arsehole with Anthea watching them. Cold lubricant gets added to his hole, causing him to shiver – and he can feel Mycroft’s tongue begin to thrust in and out of his orifice – tongue-fucking him. The flesh of his cock start engorging, pushing up futilely against the silver rings of his cage. He desperately wants to push his arse further against Mycroft’s face – needing more stimulation, but like the good slut he is – he stays put.

“I think that should do it.” Mycroft states casually, as if his tongue had not been in Sherlock’s arse seconds before. “I want you to fuck yourself on that dildo attached to floor – show us how desperately you need something in that needy little hole of yours, pet.”

And Sherlock crawls over to the centre of the living room, where the same suction-cup dildo that had been used to throat-fuck him is attached to the floor. The corset restricts his movement – not to mention his breathing – and Sherlock knows that this is going to be another tortuous task. Mycroft does not offer him any additional lube, and the dildo itself is uncoated except for his earlier oral secretions – and Sherlock looks over at his brother, who simply nods. Slowly, Sherlock lowers himself onto the toy and he scrunches his eyes as he feels it pierce his arse; it is relatively uniform in girth, so there is no preparation. It burns, but in a good way. He slowly works himself up and down the shaft, keeping his eyes on his brother, who is now sitting back in his armchair.

.

.

Mycroft watches hungrily as Sherlock undulates on the dildo. His brother is already breathless, and his desperate little pants tell him how desperately his boy needs to come. This certainly must be a sin – watching his tarted up little brother fuck himself. He loves how the lingerie looks on his brother – the combination of tantalizing aubergine silk and dark lace, and his eyes gravitate towards those nipple rings. He feels that he should have paid a little bit more attention to Anthea this evening, but his boy is too distracting. Besides, Anthea is sitting next to him, enjoying the show.

“You have been so good for me, gorgeous boy.” Mycroft lavishes praise upon his pet which predictably causes Sherlock to fuck himself harder on the toy. There is a bright – almost feverish – look to his brother, as he struggles to catch his breath to supply his body with adequate oxygen for his task.

“How long has it been since he last came?” Anthea asks.

“A little over two weeks.” Mycroft replies. “This is the longest he’s ever gone without.” And it hadn’t been intentional. Mycroft had offered Sherlock an opportunity to orgasm during the middle, and his brother had abstained. When Mycroft had first read about Sherlock’s decision, it had done things to his Dominant soul. He wants to reward his pet, but Anthea had already requested something somewhat cruel to end the night. Instead, Mycroft walks over to his brother, and asks rather soppily, “My beautiful boy, why did you not cum when I suggested you should?”

“Wanted you.” Sherlock is looking directly into Mycroft’s eyes, and the desire and sentiment in those iridescent irises is almost too much for Mycroft to bear.  

Mycroft brushes his palms against his brother’s shoulders and moves his way down to Sherlock’s cock. He wraps one hand around the caged prick, and proceeds to stroke. His brother’s face twists in agony, and guttural sounds emanate deep from his throat. He dips the fingers of his other hand into the puddle of precum that had already dripped onto the floor, and he presses them into Sherlock’s mouth. His brother’s tongue cleans the fingers off in an uncoordinated fashion. He repeats this action several times – it is an impossible task for Sherlock to clean all of his mess – for a new sizable puddle forms almost immediately after Mycroft cleans it up.

“You are making such a mess, little brother.” Mycroft whispers, as his hand then reaches for his brother’s full testicles – containing two weeks’ worth of denial.

“My… please.” Sherlock sobs his plea, as Mycroft’s fingers continue to fondle his sensitive balls.

“Anthea requests that I milk you – pet. Chastity play is one of her favourite things to do with subs, although I have to confess that I deny you for other reasons. She’s denied some of her subs for weeks to months on end.” Mycroft whispers, while Sherlock makes a noise in dismay. “Could you imagine that, pet? No erections, no orgasms for your uselessly caged prick? Every time I fuck you – you would be so aroused and desperate – far more desperate than you are now, pet. Erections and orgasms would only be for your Master, boy.”

“Mycroft.” Sherlock’s eyes are pleading. “Please.”

“You like this idea.” Mycroft states the truth rather cruelly, gathering up more of the copious secretions falling in long strands from Sherlock’s organ and this time he shoves his fingers deep into Sherlock’s already abused throat, fucking his oropharynx.

“My…” Sherlock whines; he looks like he is about to cry.

“I know. I know. It’s a fantasy.” Mycroft gently strokes his brother’s back. “I would miss making you cum, little brother. But, would you like to try it – the milking? What’s one more day of denial?”

“My… I am yours to make decisions for.” Sherlock struggles with his words.

“Get off the toy, pet – I want you to suck my cock first. Here, let me loosen that corset of yours.”

Sherlock sighs with relief when Mycroft releases some of the tension in the laces. “Thank you Master.”

Mycroft kisses him, tenderly – and says, “Thank me when the night is over.”

.

.

Anthea smirks at Mycroft, as he sits back down on his armchair with Sherlock crawling behind him.

“You are going to milk him.”

“We will broaden his horizons.” Mycroft says before turning his attention to his pet, “Take my cock out, slut, and suck it – like the filthy little cockslut you are.”

Sherlock immediately obeys, unfastening Mycroft’s belt and undoing his trousers with practiced ease. Mycroft throws his own head back in silent pleasure against the armchair when Sherlock suddenly takes his entire prick in his mouth in one go. God. His pet is born to suck cock. Inspired by Sherlock’s bold action, Mycroft grabs his slut’s hair, and proceeds to fuck his brother’s throat, forcing drool and thick mucus to decorate his brother’s lips and chin once more. The vision of it all is absolutely obscene, his pet’s mouth stuffed full of his cock, drool and precum raining onto the floor and his brother’s sorry cock trying its best to get erect in its cage. It takes an embarrassingly short time for Mycroft to release his seed down his brother’s throat.

“Kneel on the coffee table, pet.” Mycroft says after taking a moment to recover, after letting Sherlock clean off the residual cum off his softening cock. “That would be the easiest position to milk you in.”

His little brother looks nervous as he arranges himself onto the coffee table as directed. Mycroft thinks about it – the denial. He believes that it is an important component in a submissive’s training; a sub kept in denial becomes more submissive over time – wanting, craving, and needing to please their Dominant. Anthea takes these games to the extreme with her boys, but this isn’t something Mycroft would do unless Sherlock actually asks for it.

“You have a safeword, love. Use it, and I will let you orgasm – no strings attached.” Mycroft says, “You’ve already denied yourself for longer than two weeks – which is the longest you’ve gone without coming since we started everything… Mm?”

“Yes, Master.” Sherlock nods, “I will try.”

“Good boy.”

Mycroft breaches his boy’s hole with his fingers again, making sure that they are adequately lubed – as his brother’s arse would be sore after fucking himself with the dildo. Sherlock moans when the digits brush against his prostate and he proceeds to slowly fuck himself on his brother’s fingers. Mycroft loves it, watching his once seemingly asexual brother fuck himself wantonly on his fingers, desperately trying to get more stimulation. There is a twist of agony in Sherlock’s countenance – from the cock cage and ring crushing his cock and balls – but his brother does not complain – he is used to the suffering and denial – although this is probably testing the limits of Sherlock’s current abilities to endure. Mycroft knows that Sherlock can get off with prostate stimulation alone under certain circumstances, but this probably will not happen while his prick is locked by the snugly fitted cage.

“Come on, pet – can you feel it building, hm?” Mycroft asks.

“Yes…” Sherlock works harder, trying to get Mycroft’s digits to stimulate his prostate more. “Please, Master… more…”

“God, you beautiful thing. Come on… you are getting close…” Mycroft says teasingly.

Sherlock’s thighs are trembling – due to exhaustion – but he doggedly continues. He draws breath, his body’s muscles suddenly contracting, just like he does during orgasm and Mycroft watches as a stripe of semen pulses weakly from his brother’s cock. A disappointed whimper escapes his brother’s lips. The cum continues to slowly gush out of Sherlock’s slit as Mycroft’s fingers continue to massage his insides, while Sherlock’s hips still jerk in a futile attempt to seek a proper orgasm. When all the cum had been depleted from Sherlock’s now empty balls, Sherlock looks absolutely shattered. Tears are coursing down from his lacrimal ducts, and he looks at Mycroft imploringly.

Wordlessly Mycroft hugs his pet – well aware of how unsatisfactory this entire act can be, while Anthea nods in approval.

“He’s a special sub.” Anthea remarks, while Mycroft gently strokes Sherlock’s hair and whispers an “I love you” in his ear.

“He is.” Mycroft agrees.

“I should probably let you two be.” Anthea says after a few minutes of watching Mycroft tend to his pet. “Thank you very much, sir – for letting me see your lovely boy. I thoroughly enjoyed myself.”

“Thank you, Anthea – for letting me show off my beautiful pet.” Mycroft replies, as Anthea gathers her things and prepares to leave.

“No need to get up on my account – I will let myself out.” Anthea says, “I will see you on Monday, sir.”

“Happy birthday, Anthea.” Mycroft utters his last words to his PA, before Anthea disappears from the living room.

He knows that Anthea is going home to do what she terms ladywanking over everything that she had just seen. And, Mycroft will spend the rest of the evening feeding Sherlock a much-needed light dinner, washing him again in the shower and cuddling with him in their bed. He has plans to spoil his boy tomorrow – as a much-deserved reward.


	22. Chapter 22

All Sherlock sees is red. That is – the wall in front of him is painted a deep dark shade of red. To his right, there is a partially open door – but it is only a tease. Sherlock is going nowhere; he is bound and naked on this wooden piece of equipment known crudely as a breeding stand – his cuffed ankles spread wide to display his arse, his torso resting on a block of leather-padded wood – with holes cut out of it to expose his genitalia and chest to the air, and his wrists are cuffed to the sides of the apparatus. Screaming for help is useless – a ball gag renders him silent. And even more embarrassingly there are already droplets of drool starting to escape his mouth.

It is a room that he has never been in before.

He could observe. The floor is pieced together from dark slats of expensive mahogany, the baseboard and the crown moulding of the walls are all whitewashed. Aside from the breeding stand, Sherlock cannot see any other object in the barren room. In terms of deductions, this room was recently redone – the paint job is fresh, and the floor is newly polished. He is in a well-kept house that belongs to someone who is financially well off. And of course, the owner has perverted and sadistic hobbies.

 _How did he even end up here?_ John would probably scold him for running into trouble without thinking again – if he ever did get out of here alive – that is. Maybe his flatmate would find him – but then again, Sherlock remembers his caged cock dangling uselessly and helplessly between his legs through the hole in the stand and he shakes his head – best not to let John find him like this. Especially with those strange looks his flatmate had been giving him these days…

Or maybe…

Approaching footsteps cause Sherlock to stiffen. His senses are hyperalert, and he could feel his tits hardening in the cool airconditioned room. The footfalls are familiar; a cadence that belongs to… his brother _sans_ umbrella. Oh god, is it really better for Mycroft to find him here like this – of all people? His treacherous cock is dripping again – that is all what it is good for these days anyways – betraying the depths of Sherlock’s depraved mind.

“Ah… little brother. Fancy seeing you here.” Sherlock can feel Mycroft’s eyes gaze disapprovingly upon his person. And, maybe – there is a little bit of lust there too. He shuts his eyes tightly. Good god – why would his proper big brother ever desire him like this?!?

“Aren’t you lucky that it is I who found you?” His brother continues, his tone conveying his distaste. “Imagine if someone else came up here – only to find the great consulting detective of our times bound to some breeding stand like a nasty little whore... Could you just imagine the headlines?”

Oh, good god. The papers. Headlines like _Boffin detective moonlights as fucktoy_ dance in Sherlock’s mind. “Free me!” Sherlock attempts to yell around his gag, but his brother merely asks mockingly. “What is that, brother? You want me to free you? Ungag you?” Mycroft scrutinizes him coolly, “I don’t think so. In fact – you filthy little tart…” Sherlock suddenly feels leather brush against his cock – and he realizes that Mycroft is using a riding crop to lift his prick up. Oh, god – he can feel himself leaking precum… “You’ve been leaking all evening whenever someone walks by the room. You want to be found like this, with your useless prick locked up tight.” His brother bounces his cock on the tress none-too-gently, before letting gravity abruptly swing his cock back to its original position – causing Sherlock to futilely protest at this treatment. “With these rings pushed through your slutty tits.” Sherlock’s whines are rendered mute by his gag when Mycroft’s crop rubs against his nipples – and he writhes and twists against his restraints to try and get away.

_Smack!_

The tress lands hard against a buttock and Sherlock gasps. Or, at least – he tries to.

“I thought you wanted this, little brother.” Mycroft tuts, “But maybe… you want to be fucked. Well – of course – that is why you are mounted onto a breeding stand after all.”

Sherlock anticipates his brother dropping his trousers, but instead he hears Mycroft fiddling around with what sounded like another device. And then he feels lubricated silicone brush against his entrance, and he knows. _God – the fucking machine!_ He breaks out of his temporary fantasy and tries to rub his arse against the dildo attachment, and his brother breaks character too and laughs. “Eager little slut, aren’t you – hm?” Sherlock basks in the fondness and affection that perfuses his Dominant’s syllables. “Do you want to be unlocked now?”

He shakes his head. No. He does not. Mycroft had been asking him this all morning. All Sherlock wants to do is submit. And not just submit like how he usually does; the filthy fantasy that Mycroft had uttered in his ear yesterday with Anthea had really taken root somewhere in his brain – the idea that erections and orgasms would be for his Master only. The idea that he could truly be Mycroft’s fucktoy. And it scares him – that he has such desires – such strong cravings for being dominated. He can no longer lie to himself – he likes being denied – he loves it as much as being allowed to orgasm. And is that not truly the crux of the matter, that they are two incompatible states of being.

“Shh… pet.” Mycroft has given up all pretense of whatever game they are playing, and he is simply stroking Sherlock’s curls. “Stop thinking so much.” His brother’s eyes – suddenly so blue, so affectionate – meet his, and another two words fall from his lips. “I know.”

Oh god. He does know. Sherlock feels himself flush, despite the cool temperature of the room. Embarrassed, he looks away. But his brother uses the riding crop to reorient his head so that he is looking up at his beloved Dominant once more.

“We will discuss it later.” Mycroft actually kneels down in front of him, in front of the breeding stand. “Pet – I will never look down upon you for any of your fantasies. You asked me many times – in your journal, our contract and even during our conversations – for me to educate you on the ways a submissive can submit to a Dominant – and I will do so for you. I can deny you, pet – but you will cum at least once before you leave for Baker Street. Understand?”

This all feels so surreal. Sherlock thinks. How he had gone from begging for release, to fantasizing about denial. He nods, and his brother smiles. “Now, let’s see if we can actually spitroast you, pet.” Mycroft rearranges his countenance – back to the disapproving role he had been playing earlier. “I think this gag should go – I think the people downstairs ought to hear what you sound like while getting a good fucking… hm?” His brother deftly removes the gag; the glistening strands of drool cling onto the dark ball as it is pulled out from Sherlock’s aching mouth.

“Please don’t…” Sherlock finds himself pleading. “I will be good, I swear.”

Mycroft snorts in disbelief.

“I am untouched.” Sherlock then adds, trying to look as virginal as possible, “Please let me go?”

“Then, maybe you will actually learn a lesson from this. Good boys do not behave like sluts.” Mycroft says sternly, and Sherlock feels the head of the sizable dildo breach his hole; his brother had turned on the machine, setting it at an excruciatingly slow rate. “Although, I highly suspect you are lying brother – look how easily your slutty hole takes this sizable toy.”

“Mycroft…” Sherlock whines; his brother’s last sentence is an understatement – he writhes against the stand as the thick dildo penetrates him without preparation – aside from that one time that Mycroft had fingered him earlier on in the day. His string of complaints dies down into moans, and his brother says with a touch of humour, “That is so much better.” Mycroft walks over to caress Sherlock’s scalp again. “Look how peaceful you look, little brother. Maybe, I should just keep you shackled in here permanently with your holes plugged up for my use at all times.”

Sherlock can barely answer when Mycroft increases the machine’s rate of penetration. His cock is weeping ridiculously as the dildo mechanically fucks into him and grazes his prostate with each stroke, and before he could become cognizant of what his brother is doing – he feels strong fingers grab at his hair, and a thick warm cock being shoved down his throat. Mycroft speeds up his thrusts, until he is fucking Sherlock’s mouth at the same rate and rhythm that the machine is fucking his arse and fuck – it feels amazing – being filled and fucked at both ends. And it’s difficult – Sherlock wants to thrust his bum backwards for the dildo to fuck him deeper, to get it to rub perfectly against his sensitive spots but he wants to take his brother’s cock in further as well. He is drooling, sweating, choking and spluttering, while his own prick is painfully straining against its unyielding metal confinement. He knows no matter how much effort he puts into this – he will not be able to cum. Despite knowing this, Sherlock can still feel his balls beginning to tighten, and for some physiological reason unknown to him, the pressure and sensation building up within his body is more intense than an actual climax would be.

He can feel Mycroft’s unrelenting rhythm start to fracture; his brother pulls all the way out, and then thrusts all the way in, resting his pubic bone against Sherlock’s lips – suffocating him. He feels himself slowly being asphyxiated, and just as he can’t take it anymore, his brother pulls out and lets him breathe before slamming straight back in again – Sherlock feels like he’s flying – high on his Dominant’s massive cock. And then his brother abruptly pulls out again, he ejaculates directly on Sherlock’s face, his seed trickling down his cheeks, dripping slowly down towards the pristine wooden flooring – and Sherlock reflexively sticks his tongue out to lick at the precious sticky fluid.

He is now free to thrust his arse back against the dildo fucking his hole.

_Slap!_

“I don’t think this experience has taught you anything, brother.” Mycroft says with disgust after he roughly slaps Sherlock’s cum-covered cheek. “Look at this!” His brother thrusts a large clear petri dish containing a healthy amount of the precum that had dripped from Sherlock’s cock in front of his face. “Absolutely unacceptable. And look at you – humping this dildo like the wanton whore you are. Stay fucking still will you? Show me that there is an iota of discipline somewhere in your body.” An iron grip proceeds to hold his hips still for a few seconds.

“Brother, please…” Sherlock whines. “I want –“

_Slap!_

Mycroft slaps his other cheek, hard. “Good God, and you actually have the audacity to ask to cum? Filthy little fucktoys like you do not deserve such privileges. Their cocks deserve to be locked up and forgotten.”

Sherlock shudders at those words – knowing that Mycroft is deliberately fueling his new troublesome desires. God, no normal person ought to be so aroused at such debasing words.

His brother starts laughing in mock-dismay when Sherlock’s hips involuntarily buck. “Well, I see that there is absolutely no hope for you, little brother. You will be in need of lifelong correction.” Mycroft finally switches the machine off, slides the toy out of Sherlock’s arse and unshackles him from the stand. Mycroft pulls out a handkerchief to wipe at his cum stained hands and Sherlock’s face.

“As long as it is you that is providing the correction.” Sherlock rasps with his awfully sore throat while trying to resist rubbing his cock on the nearest surface, as Mycroft massages his sore limbs.

His brother kisses him tenderly. “Of course, pet.” He then asks, “How do you like the room?”

“It’s a bit bare.” Sherlock reexamines the large empty room, noting the presence of another door that led into a bathroom; he then questions, “And why red?”

“There will be more things in here soon. This will be our new playroom –“

“Dungeon.” Sherlock amends.

Mycroft sighs long-sufferingly before continuing. “And this shade of red goes well with your skin – and it will match all the lovely marks I will leave on you in the future – pet.”

“Thank you, Master.” Sherlock nuzzles his face fondly against his brother’s chest, relaxed despite the arousal still thrumming through his body. He knows he is a very lucky slut, with a Master designing and creating a room for the sole purposes of teasing and tormenting him.

Mycroft sighs deeply, once he realizes that his shirt and waistcoat would need to be sent to the dry cleaners. Instead, his brother simply says, “You are welcome, pet.”

.

.

Sherlock is gone again.

John sighs as he sits down at his chair. From what he knows, his flatmate had actually stayed at home in the evenings for well over two weeks, getting increasingly tetchy as each day had passed. John had thought that Sherlock might had ended whatever experiment with dominance and submission that he had been engaging in – but clearly, this is not the case.  

He wonders what Sherlock is doing now – is he getting another caning? Maybe getting his beautifully pale throat fucked? Bouncing on somebody’s fat prick? Fuck – he has to stop thinking about this. Clearly his own sexual escapades in the past two weeks had not been the right sort of therapy to take his mind off Sherlock. John had dated a string of women and had a series of one-night-stands – with each woman looking disturbingly more and more like his flatmate – slender and pale with dark curly hair – heck his last tall conquest even had similar cheekbones!

John gets up from his chair, suddenly feeling restless. He stretches his limbs and debates about getting a cup of tea, but his feet take him to the door of his flatmate’s bedroom. Sherlock hadn’t mentioned anything about John’s previous intrusion, and now he is feeling bold. After all, John reasons – how many times had his flatmate broken into his room?

Too many.

He is merely returning the favour.

Slowly, he curls his hand around the doorknob, and pushes in. The room looks the same as how he had last left it – the index cards on submission are still scattered on the nightstand. On a whim, John drops to the floor and finds a large simple wooden box with a simple latching mechanism underneath the bed. He pulls it out, opens it and his jaw falls open in a gasp. There is an assortment of plugs and dildos of all sizes and materials, including some whose sizes John didn’t even believe is possible for any arse to take. An impressive flesh-coloured dildo catches his attention. It looks incredibly realistic, with a suction cup at the end. Tied just above the base is a string attached to a piece of small cardboard with the word _Master_ and a heart inscribed upon it in Sherlock’s hand.

Oh god.

John drops the toy quickly back into the box, as if it had burned him. He speedily closes the box, shoves it back under the bed and runs out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

That dildo had certainly been between Sherlock’s generous arse cheeks. So, this is what his flatmate had been doing in his room… Although, John had never heard anything remotely sexual from Sherlock’s room despite the thinness of the walls; there is a reason why John prefers not to bring birds back to Baker Street apart from the fact that his eccentric, no, brilliant flatmate would scare them off.

No doubt, the dildo had been made from one of those fancy kits used to make a replica of someone’s dick.

God – Sherlock is a bit of a size queen – isn’t he?

And, oh dear fucking hell – whose fake knob did he just grab?!?

Groaning, John grabs his computer and starts browsing _FetLife_. Maybe a kinkier encounter would help curb this problem of his. He smacks his forehead against his palms.

He definitely _does_ have a problem.

And like most of his problems that he has had in the last few years, they have the same root cause – Sherlock.

.

.

Sherlock is curled up in his lap; his face buried against his naked chest. Mycroft has one arm wrapped possessively around his little brother’s waist and Sherlock sighs when Mycroft cranes his neck forward to lightly kiss his forehead. His other hand brushes against the leather collar before moving down to jostle the nipple rings – causing his sub to squirm and mewl. He deliberately tugs on a ring – and Sherlock jerks with an agonized yelp.

“What a noisy little whore you are.” Mycroft tuts.

In response, Sherlock simply snuggles closer – trying to maximize the skin-to-skin contact between them. Mycroft is aware that when Sherlock is denied for long periods – he has the tendency to become needy and clingy. His little brother had noticed this change in behaviour himself, and Mycroft had reassured him that it is a normal response. Although, knowing that Sherlock wants to experiment with possibly stricter and longer periods of denial makes Mycroft wary – he is afraid that his job might not let him have the time to look after his pet as Sherlock deserves and needs.

“I want you to fake-punish me.” Sherlock whispers to him.

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “You are either getting punished pet – or you are not.”

“You know what I mean. Make up a reason if you need one.” Sherlock pleads with his eyes; it is essentially Mycroft’s kryptonite.

Mycroft pulls out a silk handkerchief and presses it into his brother’s mouth. Sherlock reflexively resists, earning him a rough pinch to the sensitive flesh of his inner thighs.

“Don’t give me an actual reason to punish you, pet.” Mycroft warns. “Just who is the Dominant in this relationship?”

“You are, Master.” Sherlock answers, his words deferential.

“Who do you belong to?”

“You, Master.”

“Who do you cum for?”

“You. Master.”

“Who are you?”

“Your slut, Master.”

“And what is the duty of the slut?”

"To please you, Master.”

“You seem to be forgetting your place at times – pet. This is unacceptable.” Mycroft reprimands. “What if I take you out – and you behave like this? Whose fault would that be?”

.

.

Sherlock bows his head, feeling repentant. “Yours, Master.”

“I allow you many liberties that I have never allowed any of my subs to have – Sherlock.” Mycroft fondly ruffles his hair – a tell for Sherlock to know that his brother isn’t actually upset with him.

Sherlock purrs when Mycroft caresses his skin.

“I think you want me to torture these.” Mycroft carefully rolls Sherlock’s tight and slightly swollen nipples in his fingers.

“Yes, Master – please.” Sherlock agrees. “Please torture them.”

His eyes widen when Mycroft takes two slim silver weights from his trouser pocket and clips them both to his piercings, and before Sherlock is ready, his brother drops them, and he gasps loudly as the weights tug at his nipples and stretch his sensitive flesh. Fucking hell, it hurts. But his cock is beginning to leak again, and he cannot take his eyes off the weights – swinging like pendulums with his every move – driving him insane.

“Take out my cock, pet – I didn’t get to fuck you for over two weeks.”

Sherlock gingerly makes his way down from the armchair, mindful of the weights, to get onto his knees on the hard-wooden floor. He unbuckles the leather belt – and he realizes that this is the same belt that Mycroft had used to whip him weeks back. When he leans forward to lap at his brother’s delectable cock, Mycroft pushes him firmly back by the shoulders and asks sternly, “Wait – what did I tell you – pet?”

“To take out your cock, Mycroft…” Sherlock quickly realizes his mistake.

“Such a greedy boy.” Mycroft states fondly, “But, stay still or you won’t get anything – pet.”

His brother sits back on the armchair and proceeds to stroke himself. Sherlock settles back on his heels and watches as a bead of tantalizing salty precum forms from Mycroft’s slit, and he fights the urge to lick his lips. His Master shifts forward on the chair, bringing his cock closer to Sherlock’s face – and it is such a sweet torture – to be able to smell Mycroft’s heavenly musk, but not be allowed to taste. He almost cries with frustration when Mycroft rubs his glans all over Sherlock’s lips and chin. His brother – the sadistic torturer merely smiles – and Sherlock knows that he would obey – even if it bloody killed him in the process.

“Since you refused the handkerchief, brother – I have something else for you…” Mycroft reaches into the box of toys that had not been returned upstairs and fishes out a spider gag. “Open, pet.”

Sherlock does and the gag gets fastened around his head, the metal brackets stretching his mouth wide. Mycroft muses, “One day, I will insert this gag into your mouth and insert the tunnel plug up your arse – and keep both of your holes available, wide and gaping. You would like that – wouldn’t you – my filthy little slut? Isn’t that what you wanted? To be used? Holes for me to cum and piss in? Answer me.”

He nods, eagerly and Mycroft grins widely and dangerously – and his locked-up cock simply drips – leaking precum onto the floor.

“I could keep you under my desk at Whitehall. It would be efficient wouldn’t it? I wouldn’t even have to get up to use the loo. And you would get all hot and bothered whenever someone walks into my office. It could be the Prime Minister, it could be Lady Smallwood – or maybe – even the Queen. They could stop by and have a chat – little knowing that I have such a naughty little slut servicing my cock’s every need behind my desk.”

Saliva is starting to leak copiously from his mouth, considering that he cannot swallow properly with his mouth being held open like this. He cannot even smile at the image of Lady Smallwood walking into Mycroft’s office – trying her latest misguided seduction attempt – little knowing the dirty shenanigans happening behind Mycroft’s desk.

“Lick my finger, pet.” Mycroft places his index finger next to Sherlock’s mouth, and he sticks his tongue out, licking at the digit – tasting the skin. The finger slides into his mouth, and his brother slowly fucks his mouth with it, gradually adding more fingers – until his mouth is stuffed with as many digits as Mycroft possibly could stick in. He feels the fingers caress his tongue and palate and he gags when Mycroft inserts his digits fully in, hitting the back of his throat with every thrust.

And Sherlock practically almost leaps up when Mycroft removes his digits from his oral cavity and promptly strokes his caged cock with his saliva-coated hand – causing the weights to pull further at his tormented tits. He sobs with agony as he feels his cock attempt to grow turgid against the unyielding bars – but he takes it – because that is what his Master wants and what he wants – to be used. His brother’s free hand reaches up and plays with the weights – and his brother hums with satisfaction as his nubs get pulled further, causing jolts of pain that course straight down to his tortured cock.

“You are so lovely like this, little brother.” Mycroft says, his voice fond. His brother’s non-saliva slicked hand reaches further up to ruffle with his curls – and Sherlock cannot help but lean forward, needing more of this gentle touch – a soothing contrast to the manhandling he had just experienced. The gag gets removed from his mouth – Mycroft taking the time to massage the delicate corners of his aching lips, before he orders. “Sit on my cock, pretty boy.”

Sherlock obeys, getting up from his knees which are beginning to ache from being on the solid floor. With Mycroft’s help, he lines his hole with his brother’s cock, and slowly fucks himself on it – feeling the slight stretch and burn. His hole still has lubrication from previous activities – and it’s convenient, not having to prepare his arse anymore for being fucked. Mycroft’s hand reaches over to continue frigging his prick, at the same rate that he works himself on his brother’s. It is a mix of heaven and hell – feeling the familiar pressure build up in his loins – but knowing that he cannot come like this – the cage is sized too perfectly for him to even consider the possibility of cumming. His brother’s cock rubs him perfectly in all the right spots and he can feel desperate tears forming in his eyes – he wants to beg for a release that would never come.

“God, if only you can see yourself.” Mycroft’s voice is distorted with his own pleasure. “Fucking yourself on my cock like the wanton whore I know you are. I missed your hole, pet – miss it clenching my prick so beautifully. I missed you – pet. My gorgeous boy – who takes what I give him so well. Fuck –“

His brother spills his cum inside him; how Sherlock had missed this feeling over the last two weeks. Shaking with all the unreleased tension, Sherlock pulls himself off his Master’s softening cock, and he turns to bury his face into his brother’s hairy chest again – and sobs.

“Ask for it – pet.” Mycroft’s hand tenderly caresses his back, while his other hand detaches the weights from his rings.

“Please, Mycroft – let me cum.” Sherlock is near his breaking point. Self-imposed – but nevertheless. His brother had offered him many opportunities to cum over the weekend that he had denied himself. “Please, Master.”

“My darling – of course.”

.

.

Mycroft fetches the key for Sherlock’s cage and finally unlocks his boy’s prick from its confines – watching the tormented organ swell eagerly. His fingers curl around the sensitized flesh once more, and gently strokes. Tears are still falling down his brother’s face, but Sherlock looks relaxed in a way that Mycroft had never seen him.

“If this is the way you want things to be, brother – this is the only way I will let you cum – by my hand only.” Mycroft says, as Sherlock’s hips buck as he gets closer to orgasm. “You won’t be allowed to cum when I fuck you – or fuck you with any other implement.”

“God, please – brother.” Sherlock begs so deliciously. “More.”

“Cum for me – my beautiful boy.” Mycroft orders as his hand applies what Sherlock needs.

And Sherlock does – shooting cum directly onto Mycroft’s torso – stripes and stripes of it – his neck extended back and his mouth open in an ‘o’ of relieved ecstasy. He slumps into his mess when he finishes, smearing the copious and sticky ejaculate between the two of them. Mycroft kisses him and licks into Sherlock’s pliant mouth – gently caressing his abused mouth with his tongue. His brother kisses back, letting his tongue intermingle with his before they finally break apart.

“I don’t want the denial to be permanent.” Sherlock whispers, “I don’t think I can handle it. I like orgasming, but I like being denied too. It’s a fantasy – Mycroft. There is no way I would survive what Anthea puts her subs through.”

“I know.” Mycroft presses another kiss onto his cheek while using his fingers to wipe away the wetness on his brother’s face. “Contrary to what you might think – I like making you cum, brother mine. And, I myself do not have the discipline for what Anthea does. It would be challenging for both of us.”

“I find that hard to believe. I’ve always thought you were the definition of discipline.” Sherlock’s tone is disbelieving. “But I won’t object to being denied and milked once in a while. And I still want you to dictate my orgasms.”

“There are different types of discipline – pet. This is not one of mine. And, your request is reasonable. I was afraid that you were going to ask for a trial run of what Anthea does to her subs. It’s one of those things that are fun in theory and fantasy but exhausting for both the Dominant and the sub in reality.” Mycroft admits. “And to be honest, I would find it tedious after a few weeks.”

“Mm…” Sherlock sighs contentedly. “Thank you for indulging me all weekend. I think my favourite part was being taken from both ends…”

“Of course, you are my properly trained slutty boy – you would enjoy that.” Mycroft looks adoringly.

“Can we attach the replica of your cock to the machine next time? I want to be fucked by you on both ends.” Sherlock asks.

“Of course.” Mycroft nods. “Just write it down in your journal sometime.”

“Thank you – I love you.” Sherlock smiles. He knows that Mycroft keeps a running list of things that he wants to try. “You spoil me so.”

“Just do not tell anyone else that I indulge you like this.” There is a mixture of jest and seriousness in Mycroft’s syllables.

“Your reputation as a coldhearted Dominant is safe with me, brother dear.”


	23. Suspension

_Crack!_

_Why did he agree to let Mycroft do this?_

Sherlock wonders somewhat bitterly as he watches a male sub writhe in ecstasy under the delicious lashes of Mycroft’s single-tailed whip. He had only been whipped once by his brother with this particular implement, but his skin will certainly never forget that singular blend and quality of pain/pleasure. The brown-haired submissive bound to the cross is arching and swaying – begging and pleading for more; the whip singing and dancing over his torso, leaving reddened welts in its wake.

Despite his misgivings, Sherlock can feel his caged cock and nipples ache. God – he would give almost anything he owned at this point to trade spots with the sub. He wants Mycroft to make love to him with the whip. He wants to be the sole subject and centre of his brother’s intense focus. Instead, he admires the elegant motions of his handsome lover from afar; his muscles flexing and contracting under that rakish piratey shirt of his – as he lands blow after blow with precision onto a pale living canvas that is not him.

“Abraxas is so lucky.”

Sherlock turns his head slightly and slowly, minding the tight and restrictive leather hood covering his head and neck that Mycroft had placed on him. With a few simple modifications – it could also be used as a sensory-deprivation tool. Sherlock has never tried out this particular feature. Otherwise he is naked, barring his cage, the rings in his nipples and his collar.

The speaker is a female sub – willowy, pale and small-statured – with long inky black curls and bright blue eyes. Delicate chains connect the rings in her tits to her collar and to a piercing somewhere in her nether regions; Sherlock has no doubt the simple act of moving is a titillating experience for her. A magnificent black oriental dragon tattoo wraps around her left arm and chest; the tattooist had made masterful use of her fair skin in the design and execution.

“He’s so good with the whip. I’ve never met anyone better.” She adds quietly and longingly – posed submissively on her knees on the cushion next to Sherlock. “Oh, I am sorry – I am –“ She suddenly looks embarrassed – her cheeks are flushed. “Whore.”

“One of many in this room.” Sherlock replies casually – happy for a distraction, deducing that this is an order of humiliation that her Master had given her for the evening. “You can call me slut.”

Whore actually grins. She then asks curiously, “Are you M’s latest sub-in-training? It’s been awhile since I’ve seen him.” The sub leans closer, her hair swaying gently with the motion, before her pink lips form an ‘o’ of surprise. “Oh – he actually collared you?!”

“Yes.” Sherlock simply says – trying to smother his unhappy feelings, for he is proud to be Mycroft’s collared sub.

“He must love you.” Whore speaks after a long moment of thinking. “Otherwise – he wouldn’t. He told Abraxas – never mind – it’s not my tale to tell.” Seeing Sherlock’s confusion, she makes a second deduction. “Oh, he never told you about us! We… You, me, Abraxas and Alexei – another sub somewhere in this room – we are brothers and sister in submission, meaning that M is or was our main training Dominant.”

“I didn’t even know he played with women…” Sherlock is surprised; he had always thought that Mycroft was gay. _Damn_. There seems to be lots of things that he doesn’t know about his brother. And, that sub – Abraxas – was technically an ex! _God, did Mycroft miss playing with his old subs?_ Is he not enough for his brother? The nausea and dismay that hits him makes him want to go crawl somewhere quiet and cry. But, alas – he does not have permission to leave – and he would never dream of disrespecting his Master in public.

Whore seems to sense Sherlock’s distress and she quickly says. “M is completely gay. He’s never fucked me – no matter how much I begged him to. He has certainly watched me make out with and get fucked by other subs enough. Even Abraxas said that M was very sparing with his cock with him. He was all restraint and strict about the etiquette of Dominance and submission. And, we all thought that out of all of us – Abraxas had the best chance of being offered M’s collar.”

Some instinct makes Sherlock look back at the scene; he observes Abraxas – and he realizes that the man is built similarly to him – in fact – Abraxas looks more like a sibling to him than his brother actually did.

“Somehow, I don’t think M is like that with you. Restrained and strict.” She makes another spot-on deduction before adding mischievously, “In fact, you probably get fucked a lot by him. That would seem right – yes?”

Sherlock actually blushes under his hood. “Yes.”

“Lucky boy.” Whore says enviously. “I’ve always wondered what M would be like if he actually let go…”

At this moment, Mycroft throws down his whip and strides towards the bound Abraxas. Mycroft leans forward slightly to whisper something in the sub’s ear – and Sherlock finds himself glad that contracts exist – because he knows that Abraxas would not even get as much as a kiss from his Master. Another Dominant – dressed in a purple short-sleeved shirt with the top buttons undone to expose his dark toned chest and ripped jeans – likely of Sudanese descent – walks up to the cross to take Mycroft’s spot. It is likely this tall, ripped man is Abraxas’ current Dominant – Sherlock determines – after he sees the man press a gentle kiss onto his sub, while gently stroking the flares and stripes of colour left behind by Mycroft’s skilled whip. Abraxas leans into the man’s caresses before the Dominant reaches up to unfasten his cuffed wrists.

The Dominants exchange a few quiet words before Mycroft walks back to where Sherlock is kneeling. Some of Sherlock’s unhappiness must have been seen by his brother, because Mycroft’s expression turns grave.

“Kirsty.” Mycroft nods politely at Whore, before turning to Sherlock – his tone surprisingly fond and intimate for being in the earshot of others, “Come with me, pet.”

Whore, or rather Kirsty gives Sherlock one last look that says _we will talk later_ , before he crawls after his Master.

.

.

Mycroft removes the hood from his head and runs his fingers through his sweat-drenched curls. Sherlock closes his eyes, relaxing into the touch, before his brother says, “There is absolutely no need to be jealous – Sherlock... My lovely beautiful boy.”

“I didn’t realize how intimate it would look. I thought it wouldn’t bother me, but it did. Especially when I found out that he was a former sub of yours – that I deduced had or still has feelings for you.” Sherlock’s voice is muffled by his brother’s trousers.

“I should have told you about that. It was not my intention for you to find out about that through someone else – especially from another former sub of mine. I am so sorry, pet.” His Master sighs – but Sherlock knows the apology is genuine. “How can I make this up to you, darling boy?” The tenderness and affection in Mycroft’s voice causes a strange twisting sensation in Sherlock’s chest, while a finger wipes away a tear that he hadn’t realized that he had shed.

“Tell me about them…” Sherlock requests. It is information that he had wanted to know for weeks – or rather months. “The subs you trained and the ones you are training now.”

“There is one sub I am training now. I adore him very much, despite his impertinence.” Mycroft says – leading Sherlock to question, “Is he enough for you – Mycroft?”

“Come up here.” Mycroft pats his thigh after a brief moment of thought and Sherlock does, sitting tentatively on his brother’s lap. His Master’s arms immediately snake around him, and a kiss gets placed on a particularly sensitive part of Sherlock’s nape. “Of course, he is. You are the only one that I have ever desired.” Mycroft then asks, “Didn’t Abraxas remind you of someone – at least physically?”

“Maybe…” Sherlock rests his head against Mycroft’s shoulder. “He isn’t exactly my twin…”

“He was also a bit of a brat. I was fond of him, but I didn’t love him – Sherlock. He asked – you know – to formally submit to me at the end of his training.”

“You considered it.” Sherlock deduces. He sighs as his Master’s fingers gently pinches and plucks at his pierced tits – it feels fantastic now, instead of being hypersensitive to the point of unbearable.

“I turned him down. I told him that he deserved someone that loved him back.” Mycroft states. “I found him Master Ahmed shortly after his debut night – and he’s happier this way. I think he still resents me – a tad.”

“Debut night?” Sherlock asks.

There are all these little community-specific rituals that Sherlock has limited knowledge about.

“It’s a celebration of when a sub has finishes his or her training; it’s meant for uncollared subs to show themselves off and find a compatible Master. At the end of their display, they can ask for whatever pleasures they wish to experience – providing that there are willing Dominants to grant these pleasures.”

“What did Abraxas ask for?” Sherlock moans unrestrainedly when Mycroft slowly tugs on a nipple ring. “Mm… brother, it feels so good.”

“To be filled with cock.” Mycroft actually chuckles. “He had three in him at one point that evening. I fucked his mouth, while two others took his hole at the same time.”

Damn, Sherlock muses to himself; he wonders what that would be like – to be triple penetrated like that. Intense – probably. He then adds, “I would have asked for you – Master.” Sherlock says instead.

His brother smiles. “And – you have me. What would you want me to do with you – gorgeous boy?”

“I would want you to…” Sherlock trails off – there are too many things he would like Mycroft to do to him. This is why he prefers Mycroft to make the decisions. “Spank me. With your hand. Over your lap. Tell me what a naughty little slut I am. And then for you to use me in whatever way you may desire – Master.”

“Like the first time.” Mycroft muses, catching on quickly as he always does. “So sentimental.” His brother’s roaming hand reaches for his caged prick. “Of course, this pretty little thing wasn’t locked up back then.”

Sherlock buries his face against Mycroft’s shirt-clad chest when his brother masturbates his cock.

“Pet – look up at me.” Mycroft orders softly, and Sherlock does – well aware that his facial features are contorted with the mix of pleasure and agony that comes with having his prick being played with in this way. “God – you – are so beautiful. So gorgeous. So depraved. And, so mine. Only mine. My Sherlock.” His brother’s bright blue eyes gaze at him intensely; his handsome face softened by an absolute unconditional adoration. “I would never be so careless with your love. I haven’t trained another sub since I had you. Nor had I played with another until today. And every experience before us was only an education for me to learn how to be a deserving Dominant for you. It is a lie – you know. That you serve me. I am beginning to see that the opposite is true.” Mycroft whispers in his ear. “I might have taught you about submission, but you taught me about love – and have done so since the day you were born. You are everything: the moon, the stars, the universe – the infinite beyond… Sh… now – please don’t cry.”

But Sherlock can’t help it. God. This isn’t M the Dominant anymore; this is Mycroft the lover. It is ugly – his crying, in contrast to his brother’s beautiful words. How he and Mycroft had once scoffed at the idea of sentiment! But, maybe – Sherlock reflects – that it had been Mycroft’s own way of protecting his own heart that had felt too much in a forbidden way – especially for a brother that had not been ready to return such deep sentiments. He feels lips brush tenderly across his forehead, before Mycroft’s hand returns to wipe at his tearstained face and snot with a silken handkerchief.

Moments later, his brother remarks – having had given Sherlock time to regain his equilibrium, “It’s been a while since I spanked your delectable bottom, hasn’t it – pet?”

“Yes, Master.” Sherlock readily agrees.

“Shall I remove your cage?” Mycroft runs his finger against the exposed rings of flesh of his cock.

“That is your decision to make, Master.” Sherlock says demurely.

“I think we better remove it, darling.”

His brother proceeds to remove his cage. Sherlock’s prick eagerly springs up, hardening immediately.

“I still think it is too soon to try clamps for your tits. Maybe some light weights, hm?”

The question is rhetorical, as Mycroft’s hand reaches over for a drawer of the nearby writing desk. Much to Sherlock’s horror – he hears the familiar ringing of bells.

“Oh no.” Sherlock immediately flushes a deep red of embarrassment.

Mycroft smiles slyly – showing Sherlock the small golden bells, letting the clappers within them strike vigorously against the walls. There is a short length of silvery chain attached to each bell – ending in a clamp. His brother attaches a bell to each of Sherlock’s nipple rings – and Sherlock sighs when Mycroft lets the bells drop. He has to admit that the weight of the bells pulls perfectly at his sensitive flesh – and his embarrassment only grows when the bells ring with his inevitable movement.

“If you displease me, pet – I will make you go to dinner with these bells.” Mycroft warns; his voice has far too much amusement for Sherlock’s liking. He then orders. “Now, get your bum over my lap.”

.

.

Sherlock sighs when his brother’s palm rubs against his bottom, and a soft moan escapes him when fingertips dip into the cleft of his arse and brush lightly against his hole. He shudders slightly, causing those infernal bells to jingle and tug slightly at his tits, causing his cock to harden against his brother’s trousers – and his face to flush further with humiliation.

“You are already dripping – my nasty, filthy and most slutty boy.” Mycroft turns his attention to Sherlock’s cock, using his fingers to collect his precum. “I think you need this rather badly, pet.”

“Terribly badly.” Sherlock replies, sighing softly as his brother gently frigs his cock. “I always need you – Mycroft.” He moans when Mycroft rolls his full balls in his hand.

“I can see that – pet. I want you to count and thank me for each spank. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Master.” Sherlock replies, already feeling heady in that sweet state of submission.

A resounding _smack_ lands on his bottom – and Sherlock cannot help but to yelp in delight. It had been too long since his brother’s hand had abused his bum like this. “One – thank you, Master.”

And he counts and thanks his beloved master for each well-calculated blow, feeling his arousal grow as his bum reddens and warms under Mycroft’s attentions. Each smack seems to go directly to his cock – and it is incredibly difficult not to rub himself shamelessly over his brother’s thigh. He even forgets about the bells – far too focused and eager to thrust his arse into his Master’s blows. When they reach fifteen, his brother tells him that it is no longer necessary to count. The slaps raining down upon his flesh become harder and quicker – and he inevitably starts tearing up. He can hear his Master’s breaths becoming shorter – likely due to his exertions and his own arousal. Finally, Mycroft stops, and Sherlock is surprised when his brother lifts him up and carries him to the bed a few steps away. He is deposited gently onto the mattress with a gentle ringing of the bells. His Master follows and kisses him firmly, before letting his hands slide down his torso and knead his stinging buttocks.

“Onto your front. Spread your thighs for me, little brother.” Mycroft orders, his voice gentle.

And, a lubricated finger breaches his hole, and Sherlock cannot help but squirm. More fingers are added in quick succession, spreading his hole and massaging his prostate. Shamelessly, he humps his brother’s digits and ruts against the bed, totally lost to the sensation of pleasure – sweetened by the ache of his spanked arse.

“Oh god, please.” Sherlock moans, feeling himself getting close to climax. “Mycroft…”

“Should I stop?” His Master asks, suddenly stilling his movements. “Tell me.”

“Mycroft!” Sherlock almost yells his frustration – each one of his words are punctuated by an obscene jingle. “Please! More! Master!” And then he remembers himself and says after taking a deep breath, “If you wish to, Master.”

“My beautiful boy.” Mycroft teases the periphery of his hole with his thumb – the only digit not in his hole. “My beautiful, gorgeous slut. Can you take more?”

Sherlock still remembers how it felt to get fisted – he had loved it – as Mycroft had deduced he would. He had been wanting to ask Mycroft for a repeat of the experience, but he had never gotten around to it. But, would his brother do it without a proper enema?

“Master, please.” He sighs when his brother’s teasing thumb presses firmly against his hole, and he almost levitates off the bed when it enters him. The fist moves slowly in him, stretching him – while his brother’s other hand starts masturbating Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock bites his lip hard in an attempt to stave off orgasm; the pressure building up within him is reaching levels of unbearable. Mercifully, the command comes a moment later. “Cum for me, little brother.” And, obediently a large stripe of ejaculate almost immediately erupts from his slit – decorating his abdomen and the bedsheet. He sinks bonelessly into the mattress – feeling his hole flutter around his brother’s fist – and feeling bereft when the hand finally withdraws.

“Close your filthy hole, brother.” Mycroft demands, his fingers tracing Sherlock’s empty and gaping hole.

Sherlock can feel his sphincter muscles spasm uselessly as he tries to clench his hole shut – causing his brother to laugh. It is humiliating – and somehow, even though he had just cum, his cock is interested again.

“You should see yourself, brother – your hole wide and gaping – looser than any whore’s that I had ever seen. It’s gorgeous.” Mycroft says, his voice is absolute filth – and the syllables are arousing Sherlock again. His brother then crawls up to lie beside him after his hole finally flutters shut.

“Should I…” Sherlock looks toward Mycroft’s cock moments later.

“Later. That was for you.” His brother looks fondly at him, before reaching over to unclamp the bells from his rings.

“I love you.” Sherlock shuffles closer and rests his head against his brother’s chest.

“I know.” Mycroft’s fingers find their way into Sherlock’s curls, gently combing through the thick silky strands.

“Can I ask you a question?” Sherlock asks somewhat tentatively after a few long minutes.

“What is it?” Mycroft starts to look somewhat concerned.

“Why did you agree to whip Abraxas, even though you knew he resented you?” Sherlock dares to ask.

Mycroft sighs, “I wanted a favour from Ahmed – his Master. I wanted to set up a surprise for you – pet. Ahmed might not be proficient with the single-tailed whip – which Abraxas loves – but he is an expert rigger for suspension bondage. I didn’t have to whip his boy – Ahmed would have been happy to help regardless – but I wanted to do something for him in return.”

“Oh… Mycroft.” Sherlock suddenly feels guilty. Of course, his brother had only wanted to do something nice for him. “I –“

“There’s no need to apologize for how you felt, little brother. I went about it the wrong way.” Mycroft says firmly. “After dinner, we will go try it out – the bondage that is. I will actually do all the rigging – but Ahmed will supervise us. I would never forgive myself if I injured you, pet.”

“What is happening at dinner?”

“There’s only a small group of us staying for dinner and after – four Doms and four subs. You will eat dinner with my former subs – the three of them that are here today – and I will go eat with their Dominants. Usually, for a submissive-in-training in our circles, we set them up with submissive mentors – and I feel that it is an important part of your education – pet. I suggest you pick one between Kirsty and Alexei and I would have absolutely no problems with it if you communicate with them after we leave the club today.” Mycroft explains. “I will leave it up to your discretion how much information you wish to share.”

“I take it that they know you as M?”

Mycroft nods. “They don’t know who I actually am. This club works hard to preserve the anonymity of those who desire it – which is why it has such exclusive clientele. Some of the Royal Family even come here – for instance.”

“I love the shirt.” Sherlock says after another comforting long silence between them. He reaches over to touch some of the ruffles of his brother’s shirt. “You look so dashing and dangerous in it.”

His brother’s cheeks actually colour. “Thank you, pet.”

.

.

For dinner, Sherlock is actually permitted to wear clothes. He wears a short-sleeved, tight charcoal gray shirt and an equally tight pair of faded jeans that Mycroft had packed for him. The top few buttons of his shirt is left open, exposing his collarbones and Mycroft’s collar. As they were preparing to go down for dinner, Sherlock presents his arse to his brother with his jeans pulled down to his ankles. He even reaches back to spread his reddened buttocks, revealing his hole.

“What is this, pet?” Mycroft’s voice is tinged with some amusement. Sherlock sighs when one of Mycroft’s fingers gently traces the periphery of his hole.

“I want your cock, Mycroft.” Sherlock murmurs.

“Of course, you do. When do you ever not?” His Master’s unlubricated finger gently pokes into his opening and carefully massages the walls of his canal. “You are my cockslut after all.”

“May I have your cum?” He begs, giving his bum a wanton wiggle.

Sherlock feels the mattress dip when Mycroft sits on the edge, closer to his head than to his hole. It is utterly ridiculous, Sherlock thinks – to feel this needy for his brother; Mycroft had let him cum barely an hour ago. Anxiety churns in his gut. Rationally, Sherlock knows it’s because of dinner; he knows Mycroft wants him to meet his old subs – but he would rather eat with his brother while kneeling at his feet.

But, alas – he knows that this is not an option.

“This is about dinner.” Mycroft deduces. “You want to be possessed, fucked, owned and bred. You want to go to dinner, debauched and well-fucked; showing everyone that you belong to me – or rather that I belong to you. Isn’t that right – pet?”

His Master understands him all too well. And it’s true – he wants to own Mycroft as his Master owns him. He wants to show off that Kirsty’s previous deduction of Mycroft fucking him frequently is a correct one. He nods, “Yes, Mycroft.”

“I guess I better fuck that needy little hole of yours, boy.” His Master says, “Position yourself at the edge of the bed, pet.”

Suddenly happy, Sherlock shuffles over eagerly to obey, and a pair of lubricated digits breaches his entrance a minute later. His anal walls contract around the digits, and he hears Mycroft remarking somewhat in wonder, “So damned tight.” His brother’s hand reaches for his uncaged cock, and gives it some slow strokes, before saying. “I will fuck you. I will cum in you. I will plug you up afterwards. But you will not cum. Do you understand, pet?”

Sherlock swallows visibly. These games are so much harder when his cock is not caged. “Yes, Master.”

His brother then says reassuringly while twisting his third finger into Sherlock’s hole, “I don’t think I will last, to be honest. I’ve been denying myself too.”

“Why would you do that?” Sherlock asks, surprised, before emitting a mewl of pleasure when his Master touches his prostate. Involuntarily, he arches his back while still holding himself open, desperately wanting more.

“So responsive…” Mycroft marvels, before replying, “Because I wanted to. To see what it is like. Most of the things I’ve done to you – I’ve experienced for myself. A good Dominant should know what it feels like from the submissive’s perspective – regardless. Besides, I would rather keep my cum for you – pet – rather than dump it into the plumbing. Are you ready for my cock – my slutty boy?”  

“Please. Master. Fuck your slut.” Sherlock sighs when Mycroft’s fingers retreat from his arse. He gasps when Mycroft fucks into his stretched hole in one fluid motion, and his bum stings deliciously when his Master’s pelvis comes into contact with his arse. The pace and intensity that his brother thrusts into him forces him to let go of his buttocks in order to brace himself against the mattress. It is rough. It is brutal. It is Mycroft chasing for his own completion without a regard for Sherlock’s pleasure. And the powerful skin-digging grip of his brother’s digits and nails on his back is sure to leave further lasting marks.

But Sherlock relishes it; he wants to feel it for hours – to feel possessed and dominated. He begs. He sobs. He chants Mycroft’s name over and over again. His own cock is leaking copiously onto the bedsheets. And, before Sherlock could teeter on the precipice of his own orgasm, Mycroft grunts and spills spurt after spurt of that desperately needed hot cum into his arse. Sherlock lowers his own chest, allowing gravity to help keep the precious fluid in his arse – not trusting his own sphincter muscles to hold it in. His brother grabs an adequately sized plug, and carefully works it into his hole – effectively sealing the cum in his arse.

“Fuck. I am getting too old for this.” Mycroft collapses, panting, onto the mattress next to Sherlock, who is still shaking from the intensity of being so close to orgasm. Sherlock thinks that he should be used to this – being denied at the edge – by now. But every permutation of denial has been different – along with his responses.

“Thank you, brother.” Sherlock dares to creep closer to his brother on his trembling limbs, feeling all that lovely cum shift delightfully in his sore arse along with the plug. He dips his neck down to nuzzle at his Master’s face.

His beautiful, handsome Master – who spoils him. Who has more than enough stamina to keep up with Sherlock’s needs and wants.

“You are welcome, slutty boy.” Mycroft smiles up at him, before pulling himself back up. “Pull up your jeans – we better be off for dinner.”

.

.

Sherlock winces when he sees the chairs in the small dining room; there is no way he could sit normally on the wooden seats. Kirsty is already seated, dressed in a dark strapless satin dress. There is a knowing smirk on her face as she helpfully points to a pile of cushions at a corner. He picks one up and takes the chair across from her. Gingerly, he sits down, barely managing to hold back a moan as the contents within his arse shift within him. As Sherlock is planning to deduce her further, she exclaims – throwing him off-kilter.

“Of course, you would be pretty!”

Blood suffuses his cheeks. It is one thing for Mycroft to call him a pretty boy – even that had taken him some time at the beginning to get used to – but for someone else to call him pretty?

Sherlock had never thought of himself as a particularly effeminate person, despite his recently acquired penchant for wearing lingerie for his brother.

“Oh, you men and your fragile masculinity.” Kirsty says with exasperation.

“My Master calls me that.” Sherlock admits. “His pretty boy.”

“As he should. He is only stating the truth.”

Before Sherlock could ask her any other questions, the door swings open and two men, naked from the waist up step in. There is Abraxas, with his shoulder-length brown curls and a thick leather collar that extends from his suprasternal notch to his jaw – forcing the submissive to keep his head up high. Aside from the whip marks from earlier, Abraxas does not have any tattoos or piercings that Sherlock could see on his person. There is a debauched air about him – and Sherlock can easily see that Master Ahmed had likely fucked Abraxas hard after the events down at the dungeon from the sub’s gait. A dark loincloth wrapped snugly around his hips is his only item of clothing.

The man that Sherlock does not recognize – Alexei – is shorter than both Abraxas and he – but sinewy and well-proportioned. Tattoos cover his left pectoral and halfway down his arm. Thick silvery studs flank each one of his dark and erect nipples – which are swollen with abuse. Like Abraxas, Alexei also bears whip marks – but the marks are concentrated on his chest – and Sherlock winces again when he realizes that Alexei had his tits extensively whipped at some point in the afternoon.

Objectively, they are both good looking men. Abraxas grabs a cushion from the pile, while Alexei elegantly strides up to the chair next to Sherlock and sits down.

Sherlock fights the urge not to hate them both.

“Kirsty.” Alexei acknowledges, before turning to Sherlock. “Name’s Alexei.” He holds out a hand, and Sherlock shakes it – mindful to be conservative with his movements. Maybe getting stuffed with a plug wasn’t Sherlock’s smartest idea… But having Mycroft’s cum in him was never a bad idea. From the handshake, Sherlock can deduce that Alexei spends a lot of time painting.

“Scott.” Sherlock simply introduces himself, while Kirsty laughs and asks, “Not slut?”

“Slut is too general a term.” Abraxas interjects, “It can be applied to us all.” There is a serious demeanour about the man; Sherlock has the impression that Abraxas is not someone who misbehaves – although his brother had called him a brat. Abraxas fixes his dark eyes upon Sherlock, seeming to assess him with a frown – especially when his gaze lands on Sherlock’s collar bearing Mycroft’s personal tag.

Kirsty stands up to uncover the plates – revealing finger sandwiches, mixed greens, scones, fruit and small desserts, before saying, “Honestly, it is absurd to be so formal with each other – we all have M in common.”

“I will make the tea.” Alexei stands up to fetch the teamaking things from the surface of a nearby cabinet. “Damn, I didn’t think they would serve afternoon tea for dinner.”

“It’s meant to be light so that we can be useful to our Dominants later.” Abraxas replies.

“So, Scott – how did you meet M? Everyone always has the most interesting stories.” Kirsty starts the interrogation as Sherlock reaches for a scone with clotted cream.

He isn’t hungry, but Mycroft wouldn’t be happy at all with him if he didn’t eat. His brother had even threatened to make him keep a food diary if he ever skipped a day’s worth of meals again.

“Through work.” Sherlock says simply. Well, it was true. Their whole unbrotherly relationship had been built on Sherlock needing to break into this very club. “He thought I would make a good submissive. I disagreed, naturally.”

Alexei actually laughs as he turns on the kettle. “So, what did he do – spank you?”

“And I got off on it.” Sherlock admits. “Alas, here I am.”

“Spanked, plugged and fucked.” Kirsty adds.

“Damn, how do you even know these things?” Alexei looks at her curiously.

“Anyone can do it. You just need to know what you are looking for.” Kirsty shrugs. “Did I miss anything?”

“There’s cum along with the plug.”

“Of course. Bred. Damn, that’s hot.” Kirsty sighs, while picking up a slice of apple.

Alexei then asks, having nibbled on a smoked salmon stuffed croissant. Sherlock can tell the man is dying of curiosity. “What is it like – being M’s collared sub? He’s always so restrained. Strict. Cool. Sometimes even cruel.”

“But yet, we always begged for more.” Kirsty winks at Alexei, and they both grin widely. “He’s always had clever and evil ways of tormenting us and getting us to do his bidding.”

“Does he kiss you?” Alexei asks; he then clarifies. “On the lips?”

Sherlock nods.

Abraxas finally joins the conversation with a question. “Was that before or after he accepted your offer of submission?”

“He kissed me before.” And then Sherlock dares to ask. “Did he ever kiss –“

“Never on the lips.” Alexei replies. “He kissed my cheek after my debut.”

“Same.” Kirsty says.

Abraxas nods. “The cheek was the most intimate place he’s kissed.” And then he states, somewhat sadly. “Then M loves you. He wouldn’t have collared you if he didn’t.”

And, Sherlock knows that he was right – that Abraxas isn’t completely over his previous Dominant. It makes him happy, to know that Mycroft had done things with Sherlock that he had never done to any of his former subs. That Mycroft belonged to him in ways that these three would never know. His brother was right too, that Sherlock had no reason to be jealous.

Sherlock then says fiercely, realizing this is the only time he could announce this out loud to a group of people. “I love him.” He then says quietly. “I thought I was asexual until he spanked me that evening. I never thought I would be capable of loving someone like this in my lifetime. I learned so much from him. He isn’t just my Dominant. He’s my lover too.”

_And his brother._

_His Master and his Mycroft._

_His everything._

.

.

Sherlock is lying nakedly on his elbows and knees on a thick padded mat in a small playroom. He can hear his brother and Ahmed chat nearby; the Dominants discussing about the potential risks, the structural integrity of the equipment, which rope-tying techniques to use and possible positions. It feels strange, listening to two people talk about how they are going to truss him up and suspend him in the air like a piece of prize meat at a market.

“Do you have the rope?” Mycroft asks.

Two sets of footsteps approach him. His brother kneels down on the mat – his fingers fondly ruffle Sherlock’s hair, before he informs, “I am going to suspend you facedown – pet. I will tie you up, attach the ropes to the suspension points of the scaffold above you and we will raise you up. The rope will leave marks on you; they will last for a couple of days. For this scene, we will use the standard red, yellow and green – because this is the safeword system that Ahmed employs for rigging. If you can tolerate the suspension, darling and if it is appropriate, I may hit you with an implement or two – or maybe I will fuck you. This will be a fuckable position according to our expert. Is this okay with you?”

Sherlock nods. He swallows nervously, realizing that his brother may fuck him in front of this Dominant that he doesn’t know very well. “Yes, Master. I trust you, Master.” Is what he says instead, leaning into his brother’s soothing touches.

“And please, for the love of god, use the safewords. I will never forgive myself if I injure you unintentionally, pet.” Mycroft implores, moving his hand down Sherlock’s face.

“I promise.” Sherlock agrees, closing his eyes when his Master’s clever fingers reach for his nipple rings – gently tugging them. Moans escape from him – and he can feel his cock start to twitch and fill. He sighs when Mycroft moves on from his tits, caressing the sensitive flesh of his flanks, before using a hand to frig his cock.

 _Smack!_ _Smack!_

Sherlock’s moans are punctuated by whines and gasps when his brother spanks his previously abused bum with his other hand, causing the plug inside of him to shift and rub against all the spots that he likes. His hips buck involuntarily, needing more of this delicious friction around his prick. Suddenly Sherlock finds himself not really caring about who else is in the room with them; the Queen could be a spectator, and he would still want Mycroft to fuck him. “Will you please fuck me?” Sherlock struggles to gasps out.

“If you can take it.” Mycroft finally releases Sherlock’s erect cock, after giving him one more hard spank. “Push out your plug, pretty boy. We will only have a finite amount of time once we finally suspend you.”

Sherlock obeys, contracting his muscles rhythmically to expel the plug. His Master helps him by pulling from the other end, and an obscene wet squelch is made when the toy comes out. The emptiness is jarring, made even more so when the remainder of Mycroft’s cum dribbles out of his hole. When something warm, wet and soft – his Master’s tongue – caresses his slackened, gaping rim, Sherlock jerks upwards in pleasure.

“Damn, I wasn’t expecting such a nasty show from you, M.” Ahmed sounds terribly amused. And, somehow knowing that this Dominant finds whatever that is going on in front of him, hot, makes Sherlock even more aroused.

“Rope?” Mycroft demands, with the air of a surgeon in the operating room, as if his tongue had not been licking out his own cum out of Sherlock’s hole moments beforehand.

Ahmed tosses several lengths of thick black rope at Mycroft. His brother uncoils one and passes this first length around Sherlock’s chest. The rope is strong and slightly rough, but Sherlock leans into his brother’s incidental touches against his skin.

“Do you mind if I take a picture of you when you are suspended in the air, pet? A memento, if you will.” Mycroft asks him.

Sherlock shakes his head. “Whatever you want, Master.”

The rope is now wrapped securely around Sherlock’s chest. He takes a deep breath, only to find that he cannot. The second rope goes around Sherlock’s hips; the first passes go higher up – around his abdomen, and the later passes go deliciously close to his cock. Mycroft then proceeds to manipulate his lower extremities, and soon his thigh and leg gets tied together: a frog tie. The same tie is applied to his opposite limb. Rope then gets looped between Sherlock’s back to the suspension point. When his brother is finished tying all the rope onto the suspension points – including the separate lengths for his lower limbs, Ahmed walks over to double-check Mycroft’s handiwork, while Sherlock finds himself already sinking into that familiar subspace; it has something to do with the effect of being bound and helpless like this.

“We are going to raise you now – pet. This will hurt.” Mycroft warns. “But relax if you can.”

There is the sound of machinery, and Sherlock feels himself being lifted off the ground. It does hurt, when the rope supports his weight – a slicing pressure distributed over his skin, but it is bearable – especially when submerged in subspace.

“You are doing well – darling. Colour?” Mycroft asks.

“Green.”

“Thank you, pet.”

Sherlock smiles when Mycroft presses a kiss on his cheek. The next thing Sherlock knows is that Mycroft is lying on the mat, looking at him from below. There is a riding crop in his hand. Sherlock sighs when the tress is used to caress his skin and moans when the tress teases his nipples. He yelps in agonized surprise when Mycroft uses the tip of the crop to flick roughly at his tits. His unbound hands reflexively reach out to grab at the tormenting tool, and Mycroft playfully whacks his defenseless cock – causing him to yell and jerk in surprise. The sudden motion on Sherlock’s part causes him to start swaying sideways – like a swing.

“No stealing your Master’s toys – pet.” Mycroft admonishes, fondly. “Colour?”

“Green.” Sherlock murmurs – dazedly – there is a hypnotic feeling caused by the gentle rocking. The swaying constantly alters the distribution of pressure on his body, offering relief at the apex of the arc and intensifying the pressure at the bottom of the arc. “Will you please fuck me, Master?”

“If you want me to, pet.”

“You know what my answer is to that, Master. I always want your cock.”

“It doesn’t hurt to check.” Mycroft uses the tress to caress his brother’s face, before standing back up.

Sherlock feels himself being lowered slightly by the machine. There is the sound of his brother undoing his belt and dropping his trousers and pants. A loud moan escapes from him when Mycroft thrusts into him. Unlike the earlier fuck, his brother is gentle – rocking carefully into him. Sherlock feels himself swing forward, and he gasps wantonly when the pendulous motion swings him back, spearing him deep onto his Master’s cock. _Fuck, it feels so good…_ Sherlock moans.

“More, please.” Sherlock begs.

“You always want more, you greedy, filthy slut. You like this, don’t you – showing off how wanton you are in front of Master Ahmed?”

“God, Master – I do.” The slow, almost languid character of their sex is driving Sherlock mad, especially considering that he is completely at the mercy of his Master. His brother doesn’t speed up the pace, but instead uses the rope to force Sherlock deeper onto his cock – wrenching out sobs of pleasure from him. Mycroft suddenly pulls out from his hole, and Sherlock can’t help but whimper at the absence. His brother walks over, and suddenly his mouth is stuffed with prick.

“If only you could see yourself – pet. Drooling for my cock.” Mycroft thrusts into Sherlock’s mouth. “I bet if Master Ahmed offered his sizable cock – you would take it – wouldn’t you pet? To be stuffed from both ends – like you were last time? Two hot pricks – one down your throat, the other fucking your needy little hole.”

His brother’s words are merciless. Sherlock’s cock is achingly hard and weeping. Even though he only wants Mycroft – his brain can’t stop thinking about it – being fucked by two hot cocks at once. His Master pulls out from his mouth and returns to fucking his hole – this time picking up the pace, using the ropes as leverage to fuck Sherlock deep and hard. He can hear Mycroft grunting with his exertions, and he is barely aware of his mouth begging his brother for more.

“God… Lovely pet – you are getting close – aren’t you?”

“Please.” Sherlock gasps as he gets impaled again onto his brother’s cock.

“My little slut. So beautifully shameless. You want to cum for me?”

“Always. Oh… god – please.”

He feels one of his brother’s hands move down to stroke his weeping prick with deliberate slowness.

“Master, please!” Sherlock’s hips are starting to buck uncontrollably against the ropes – fucking slightly into his Master’s fist as he tries to resist the inevitable a bit longer – for Mycroft had not given him permission to cum.

“Should I just leave you like this – my pretty boy? Horny, aroused – desperate? Denied? Like a proper sub ought to be?”

“My – Master!” Sherlock yells in frustration when Mycroft stills his stroking hand.

“You are so fucking gorgeous like this.”

“Please.”

“I can go fetch your cage, pet – and lock you up right now.”

“Master…” Sherlock wants to cry. “If that’s what you desire.”

“My lovely boy. My love. Cum… with…. Me.” Mycroft somehow manages to punctuate each of his syllables with a hard thrust and a stroke of Sherlock’s cock.

And Sherlock spills his ejaculate at the order. His internal muscles spasm and milk the seed out of his Master’s prick. He feels dizzy, high and sated – in that happy place where subs go. In the haze, Sherlock is barely aware of being lowered back down onto the mat. His brother efficiently but carefully unties all the rigging and meticulously checks over all his rope-burnt spots. Sherlock finds himself clinging tightly onto Mycroft, who presses affectionate kisses onto his lips.

.

.

“You did so well, my beautiful boy.” Mycroft whispers reverently and affectionately in his brother’s ear. “I love you.”

“Love you too.” Sherlock murmurs, drunkenly.

“Can you stand?” Mycroft inquires.

“Mm…” Sherlock nuzzles his face deeper into Mycroft’s chest while letting out a happy little sigh.

Ahmed interrupts them at this point. “M, I will clean up the rest of this mess. You go and look after your most delightful pet. It is the least I can do for such a hot show.”

Mycroft nods his thanks to his fellow Dominant who is already diligently coiling up the ropes into neat bundles. He then remarks to Sherlock. “I think I will take that as a no.” He rearranges his grasp on his naked brother, mindful not to put too much pressure on the gorgeous deep spiral-patterned rope indentations left by the weave of the ropes on the lovely pale skin of Sherlock’s chest, hips and lower limbs, picks him up and walks out of the playroom.

“So strong – my Mycroft.” His brother murmurs quietly and admiringly while drowsily tracing the contours of one of Mycroft’s biceps with his fingertips. “You’ve been working out.”

“Well, you aren’t wrong.” Mycroft flushes slightly at his brother’s deduction, partially amazed that Sherlock still has functioning synapses in his brain to make such observations in his current state. “Go to sleep, lover mine.”

“Mm… night night.” Sherlock whispers before falling asleep with his head resting against Mycroft’s shoulder.

It unexpectedly tugs at his heartstrings – his brother’s simple words. This was how a young Sherlock – a toddler-aged one – would have said good-night to Mycroft decades ago.


	24. Thailand (Part I)

When Sherlock comes to, he has no idea where he is.

The floor beneath his knees pitches rhythmically up and down.

He cannot see a thing. A rough piece of cloth is bound tightly around his head. There are no discernable scents that his nose could distinguish. The place smells clean. There is, however, the constant roar of an engine that transmits subtle vibrations throughout his body from the floor.

_He’s on a boat of some sort._

_Skimming rapidly through moving water._

Nor can he move. His lips appear to be taped together. _Duct tape_. His wrists are bound tightly together against the small of his back. He cannot close his spread knees. Struggling with his wrists only causes the bindings around them tighten.

_Fuck._

_Zip ties._

The plastic digs uncomfortably into his skin.

Sherlock discovers that he could move his neck and waist. He attempts to rock back and forth on his knees on the carpeted floor. This causes his lower abdomen to come into contact with a hard surface.

_Shit._

_Kidnapped._

It has been a long while since Sherlock had last been abducted. And, the oddest thing is that he isn’t working on any active cases at the moment. Or at least from what he remembers. He does not feel drugged – just fatigued and slightly sore due to this position that he is currently being forced into.

_Revenge?_

Sherlock wonders about motives. It is probably the most likely explanation. He tries contorting his hands, ignoring the discomfort of his wrists, attempting to slip out of the ties. But whoever had done this to him clearly knew what they were doing.

He isn’t sure how long he struggles with his restraints; he has lost all perspective of time. His brain whirls, trying to determine the circumstances of his kidnapping.

At least he can breathe easily, and he still has his clothing on.

Sherlock becomes hyperalert when the sound of a door sliding open reaches his ears. He takes a deep breath and sniffs – and he can smell the tangy scent of salt in the air.

 _Saltwater._               

Deliberate footsteps make their way towards him. They eventually come to a halt.

Is this a captor or a rescuer?

 _The former_.

The man – presumably by his tread – isn’t doing a single bloody thing to help him.

Then a minute later, the blindfold is ripped aggressively from his face – and he blinks rapidly. Bright sunlight streams through the glass of the door that his captor had entered from. And he looks up and sees that it is his brother that is standing in front of him. _Impassively_. Dressed casually. He is attired in a short-sleeved collared shirt with a surprising floral print, a pair of thin trousers and expensive leather shoes. _It is hot outside._ There is perspiration on his brother’s skin. And the smell of sunblock.

Sherlock could venture a safe guess that they are no longer in England.

And his knees are kept spread by his thighs being cuffed to the metallic legs of the heavy-duty bench in front of him.

_Oh god…_

_Mycroft is his captor._

But why?

His brother bends down, and the duct tape is carefully removed from his mouth.

Before he could say anything, a cup of cool water is pressed against his lips.

“Drink.” His brother orders sternly when Sherlock makes no active motion to swallow. Generally, it is not a good idea to drink things from kidnappers – especially if they happen to be related to you. The water spills down his chin and onto his shirt. But his transport realizes that it is thirsty, so Sherlock gulps down the rest of the cool liquid – it certainly didn’t taste drugged.

When the cup is removed from his mouth, Sherlock tries. “Free me?”

Mycroft shakes his head.

“Where are we?”

“Krabi.”

_Shit, Thailand._

_Why are we here?_

And then his brother unbuckles his belt and pulls down his trousers. His sizable cock comes into view. It does not take much deductive power to determine what Mycroft is planning to do to him.

_But, fuck – why?_

“Please don’t do this brother…” Sherlock finds himself pleading.

“You are not in a position to demand or beg for anything – brother.” Mycroft’s syllables are absolute ice – and a frisson of fear travels down Sherlock’s spine. “Now, you will suck my cock. It is about time that you acquired some pleasant skills with that nasty mouth of yours.”

Sherlock shakes his head – keeping said mouth firmly shut.

“Do not make me do this the hard way.” Mycroft’s hand plunges roughly into Sherlock’s hair, and guides his lips to the tip of his prick. “Open. And don’t you dare think about biting down – you will regret it.”

Against Sherlock’s will, his inexperienced lips part open, letting the warm and hardening flesh slide into his mouth. He tries to fight against his brother – trying to get the cock out of his mouth – but the hand gripping his hair is painfully firm.

His brother pulls out.

_Slap!_

The harsh sound and sting of the slap against his left cheek shocks him; it paralyzes him, both mentally and physically.

“Suck it – slut.” Mycroft slips his prick back into Sherlock’s mouth and he knows he has no choice. _He is not a slut_ – he thinks bitterly – this is his first sexual experience – ever. Even during his junkie days, he had never blown anyone for a high. He hollows his cheeks out and applies suction.

“Get me hard.” Mycroft demands harshly.

And then another thought causes his blood to run cold.

They are in Thailand… A place notorious for sex trafficking. Granted that the majority of victims are Thai nationals of low socioeconomic status, or poor migrants from the neighbouring regions of Cambodia, Laos and Myanmar – but that doesn’t preclude him from suffering a similar fate. A large proportion of human trafficking instigators tend to be the relatives of the victims.

_What terrible position is Mycroft in that necessitates the use of him in such a crude and cruel fashion?_

_Slap!_

“Concentrate.” Mycroft admonishes before reinserting his cock into Sherlock’s mouth.

He can feel tears prickling his eyes as he obeys again. He half-heartedly sucks and swirls his tongue against the invading flesh. His brother gradually forces more of his prick down into Sherlock’s mouth – and he can feel himself gag. Soon, Mycroft is fucking his relaxed mouth and throat – and all Sherlock could do is simply take it.

“God. Look at you. You are born to take cock. A natural whore – aren’t you, little brother?”

His brother pulls out again and abruptly releases his hair – causing Sherlock to fall back in a daze.

_Slap!_

“Answer me.” Mycroft orders while wrenching at his hair.

Sherlock flushes red with humiliation. It is one thing to be made to do things – but to have him express such debasing statements about himself is something else altogether.

“Yes, Mycroft – I am a natural whore.” Sherlock feels increasingly mortified with every syllable that slips out of his mouth.

Tears are falling silently and steadily down his face. His brother grabs another handful of Sherlock’s hair in his fist and forces him to look up. He finds it difficult to meet Mycroft’s gaze which for a brief moment express concern and affection not fitting for the scene that they are playing; Sherlock is already well-immersed into his new identity.

“I think you better have more to drink, brother.” Mycroft is lazily stroking his erect prick now. “Open your mouth.”

Sherlock reluctantly opens his mouth again – realizing that his brother is going to piss… in his mouth.

 _How much worse can this possibly get?_ He wonders with dismay.

_Will his brother shit on him too?_

“You better not spill a drop – brother.” Mycroft aims his prick and a stream of hot piss lands on Sherlock’s tongue. He almost gags at the flavour and shuts his mouth after a few seconds, causing the piss to dribble down his chin.

Somehow, this is even more humiliating than being made to suck his brother’s cock.

His brother stops the stream. “Open.” Mycroft orders again, and Sherlock obeys and takes more of his brother’s piss. The stream stops again, and he swallows, feeling like he would never be clean again. This process repeats until Mycroft empties his bladder completely with a few more hard slaps onto his abused face for each time he falters – and Sherlock gasps when Mycroft suddenly reaches down and palms roughly at his crotch.

“You filthy little tart.” Disgust colours his brother’s voice. “You are getting off on this. You want this. I guess this makes it easier.”

Sherlock wants to shake his head – but he can’t deny it – that he is aroused. But he certainly doesn’t want this… His treacherous cock is hard beneath the denim of his jeans. He can even feel precum drip from the slit. He squirms, from Mycroft’s aggressive attention and a sudden urge to void.

“I need the loo.” Sherlock dares to interrupt.

Maybe he can escape if he could convince his brother to let him use the WC. Even jumping into the sea and drowning would be a better fate than the one likely waiting for him here.

“Then do so.” Mycroft stands back up and crosses his arms, making no move to free him.

_Oh god – does his brother want him to wet himself? Like a little child?_

“I am waiting.” Mycroft casually looks down at the watch on his wrist. “We don’t have all day, brother. Piss now.”

Absolutely embarrassed, Sherlock feels his sphincter relax and warm piss starts staining his jeans and streaming down his lower extremities. And then, his brother walks back outside while pulling up his trousers without another word, leaving him in his soiled clothing.

The rest of his tears slides down his face; he feels dirty and violated – yet confused – his cock is still ridiculously hard. An interminable time seems to pass before Mycroft returns – and the piss is beginning to feel cold and clammy against his skin.

It smells sour and musky.

There is a wickedly sharp knife in his brother’s hand. Before Sherlock could ask, Mycroft kneels onto the ground and places the point of the blade against his suprasternal notch.

“Stay still.” Mycroft orders; Sherlock watches as the knife slices his expensive shirt and jeans into ribbons. The light touch of the sharp edge against his skin seem to cause his prick to stiffen further.

“My, my, my… brother – what is this? Is there something you need to tell me?”

Sherlock looks down and he realizes that he is wearing lingerie underneath his clothing. A dark lacy bra and matching crotchless panties.

Fuck, he has been set up.

His cock is erect and hard. And leaking copious amounts of precum.

He shakes his head.

“Well, my slutty boy – you would certainly fit in with the culture around here. I am sure you’ve heard of the kathoey – or the ladyboys.” Mycroft lets the knife drift lower towards his crotch. “You certainly make a particularly pretty one.” His brother says with a leer has never made Sherlock feel more objectified in his life.

Sherlock flushes as he tries to stay absolutely still. The knife is awfully close to his hairless cock and balls – and he has no interest in losing or injuring any of his male parts. He can feel the blade’s edge start to graze at these sensitive bits of his anatomy.

The term kathoey can refer to three things – Sherlock tries to recall – a male-to-female transgendered individual, a third separate gender or an effeminate homosexual man. He whimpers when Mycroft slips the cold and cruel steel under his scrotum and lifts his genitalia up.

The latter definition is what Sherlock is hoping Mycroft is using as his definition.

A single move could cause some serious damage.

Suddenly genuine terror takes control of his transport.

“Red.” He quickly says – safewording out of a scene for the first time – and Mycroft removes the knife promptly and carefully from his genitalia. The blade slices immediately through the zip ties binding his wrists. His brother moves to uncuff his thighs from the chains wrapped around the legs of the backless bench in front of him and Sherlock slumps forward onto the leather seat. The knife gets put safely aside, before Mycroft hurriedly returns to him. His brother’s hand runs soothingly through Sherlock’s curls and scalp. He then asks cautiously; there is serious concern and worry in those beloved blue eyes. “Are you okay, pet?”

Sherlock nods. He bows his head. “I am sorry, Master.”

Mycroft leans over across the bench to caresses his cheek affectionately. “Never be sorry for using your safeword, pet. That would have been a hard limit for many subs.” His brother then adds after a pause. “I would never – you know –“

“Castrate me?” Sherlock dares to say it. The very word makes him feel nauseous. And he notices just now that the watercraft isn’t skimming through the seas anymore – it bobs gently with the calm waves – and he realizes that Mycroft had left him alone earlier during the scene to tell the captain of the ship to stop the ship during the knife play.

“I love your cock and balls.” Mycroft states. “I am a gay man – brother mine.”

“I knew you wouldn’t – but it made me think…” Sherlock admits. “It’s complicated. The idea disgusts me, but –“ He trails off, unsure on how to explain; he had been terribly aroused during the entire scene with the knife – even when it had been toying with his crown jewels. And the talk about the kathoeys didn’t help at all; Thailand is a place people go to for sex reassignment surgeries after all… His confusion had also been a major factor in using his safeword.

“It’s a sub thing.” Mycroft explains knowingly and reassuringly. “You get off on submitting to me, little brother. And this is a rather extreme act of submission and trust. Not because you have a true desire to have your balls lopped off.”

Sherlock winces, but he is greatly relieved that there is an explanation for his arousal. He closes his eyes and continues to enjoy his brother’s attentions – feeling the adrenaline from earlier die down.

“I should tell Kasem to continue on our way.” Mycroft says a moment later. “Will you be fine on your own for a minute? I will look after you afterwards – I promise, little brother.”

Sherlock doesn’t really want Mycroft to leave, but he nods anyways – not wanting to appear too needy. His brother brushes his lips tenderly against his forehead before getting up to disappear behind the glass doors again.

.

.

The sea is so blue. Depending on how the light strikes the water and the depth, the shades of blue change – from a greenish ocean-blue to a brilliant deep azure that contrasts the paler shade of the clear skies above. It is gorgeous – Sherlock thinks – as he lies on the thick soft blanket that Mycroft had set out on the shaded upper deck of their small watercraft.

He is naked, except for a pair of tight black Speedos covering his crotch. He had been freshly washed and covered with a grease-free waterproof sunscreen by his Dominant. Said Dominant is sitting next to him, his fingertips lightly caressing Sherlock’s naked body. Islands and rocky outcrops of all sizes and shapes abound and jut from the sea around them. Even the flora is so bright and brilliant here. Natural beauty had always been wasted on Sherlock. He prefers the urban jungle – saturated full of human intrigue and misdeeds. But this he loves – spending this tranquil time with his brother, who had always appreciated the finer things the world had to offer. And he knows that Mycroft would never travel for fun alone; all his trips overseas in the past had all been for his shadowy job.

Perhaps, if he had been less stupid in the past – they could have had this a long time ago.

Besides, London would be cold and filled with dreadful Christmas cheer at this time of the year. John would insist on filling their flat with all these ridiculous holiday decorations. And, there would be the annual ghastly party – as there always is. Nor would he have to go to Mummy’s. Sherlock is not looking forward to his next visit – especially with Mummy’s newfound deductions of his sexual preferences.

No, it is infinitely better to be here with his handsome, caring and indulgent Master on a fake international case halfway across the world.

“It’s nice…” Sherlock murmurs to his brother.

“Isn’t it?” Mycroft replies softly. “It’s not as nice as you, little brother.”

Sherlock blushes. And sighs when Mycroft’s fingers stroke the thin flesh covering his ribcage.

“You blush so prettily, my pretty boy.” Mycroft adds to Sherlock’s flush. “I love you."

He wiggles his way over to rest his head on Mycroft’s thigh. A straw pokes at his lips, and Sherlock drinks deeply from it – a mojito – with the perfect ratio of rum.

Mycroft cares about so many facets of his life – Sherlock recognizes now – especially since they had begun this unorthodox relationship. Even for this vacation, he hadn’t had to do anything but pack the items on a list that his brother had given him a few days before they had left. Mycroft had planned everything meticulously. And even before they had been Dominant and submissive, his brother had always been there to deal with his problems despite Sherlock’s constant rejections of his help.

He wonders if there is any other way he could contribute to their relationship – besides as a sexual submissive.

“Sherlock.” Mycroft says – easily deducing his thoughts. “I like looking after you. Even before you were mine. It gives me great pleasure to do so. My precious, beautiful pet.”

“Can I serve you in other ways?” Sherlock asks.

“We can talk about that later.” Mycroft fondly brushes his hand against Sherlock’s face. He then says, “I want you to take off my clothes – we are going to stop and go into the sea soon. Leave my swim trunks on.”

Sherlock gets up. He kneels in front of his brother and he reverently unbuttons his brother’s shirt – admiring each inch of pale but hairy chest that appears into view while resisting the urge to press kisses on the revealed flesh before moving onto his Master’s trousers. When he had undressed his brother, Mycroft passes him the tube of environmentally-friendly sunscreen, and Sherlock massages the white cream onto his brother’s naked flesh – making sure not to miss a spot.

He could do this – Sherlock thinks – learn other non-sexual ways to please his brother. When he is done with his tasks, Mycroft bends forward to reward his efforts with a simple kiss to his lips and Sherlock leans into it – enjoying the simple act of affection. His brother then sticks two waterproof adhesive pads to Sherlock’s nipples.

“I know your tits have healed for the most part – but let’s not risk getting bacteria into them. Seawater is pretty nasty – pet.”

“You are so good to me, Master.” Sherlock inclines his head respectfully.

Mycroft looks pleased and reaches up to ruffle his curls fondly.

As Mycroft had said, their captain stops their boat minutes later. They are in a large hidden cove. The water is a stunning shade of green – it is almost gemlike in quality. This would have been the stuff of Sherlock’s childhood dreams, a perfect spot for a fantastical pirate adventure. There is even a massive mouth honed into the rocks – _an opening into an emerald cave_.

A prime location for treasure.

After putting on his snorkel and flippers – Sherlock disembarks from the ship into the cool water by flipping athletically over the railing.

.

.

Mycroft has to stop and admire the sight as he walks towards the gazebo on the beach. Of course, the slowly setting sun, with its fiery hues cast over the sparkling Andaman sea and the pristine white and fine sand is brilliant. However, his eyes are fixated onto his submissive, who is already kneeling on the soft mat lying on the wooden platform that formed the floor of the gazebo.

When they had arrived at the private villa – owned by someone who owed Mycroft many favours – he had collared his brother and caged his cock after they had showered in order to remove the stickiness of the sea from their bodies. It had been unbelievable; Sherlock and he had watched all sorts sea creatures swimming under the sea – including sea turtles and schools of vibrantly coloured fish. They had explored the cave as well – and had a water fight in the open water. Mycroft hadn’t had such fun with his brother since they were children.

They could be free to be themselves here – the only other person present is a discreet butler that Mycroft had hired.

His brother is still, but Mycroft can tell he is vibrating with a delicious mix of desperation and need internally. After the shower, Mycroft had edged him a few times and denied him – not to mention that Mycroft hadn’t let him come for the entire week beforehand.

He still hasn’t decided if he plans to let Sherlock to come today – or to milk him instead – and deny him a day or two more. Shrugging, Mycroft walks closer, admiring the short black skirt with the red floral patterns hiding his brother’s crotch and the matching lacy top that really does nothing to hide the tantalizing flesh behind it.

He sits down at the modern styled table on the wicker chair next to where Sherlock is kneeling.

“This is new.” Mycroft places a palm against Sherlock’s lace-covered chest.

“I bought it before we left – Master.” Sherlock replies.

“I like it very much. I appreciate the time and effort you spend to attire what belongs to me – pet.” Mycroft acknowledges.

“Thank you, sir.”

Mycroft turns his attention to the dinner laid out on the table. There is a selection of Thai specialties – notably freshly caught grilled seafood, some curries over rice, freshly sliced mangoes and delicate looking coconut puddings. Mycroft selects a grilled shrimp skewer, dips it in a creamy coconut sauce and presses it against his boy’s lips. Sherlock obediently pulls off a shrimp from the stick and eats it, before Mycroft himself takes the second shrimp from the skewer. They consume dinner like this, with Mycroft teasing, praising and caressing his brother – adding to both their states of arousal.

Sherlock actually eats more than he usually does through this method – and Mycroft knows that Sherlock sometimes gets sexually aroused these days when he eats by himself as a result of this positive reinforcement. His brother in particular loves the mangoes, and Mycroft would take a piece of sweet mango, put it in his mouth and feed them to his brother by using his tongue – creating these sticky mango-flavoured kisses.

A Thai kiss – Mycroft muses.

“Master, please.” Sherlock eventually begs as Mycroft reaches over with a wet towel and cleans the stickiness of the desserts from his face.

“What would you like, my filthy little pet?”

“Whatever you would like to do with me, Master.”

“And what if I want to just sit here and admire the sunset?”

Sherlock actually whines. “Master!”

Mycroft slips his fingers beneath his lacy top and teases a nipple causing Sherlock to sigh.

“Isn’t the sunset particularly nice – pet?” Mycroft continues innocently – keeping his face directed towards the setting sun. “Our first night in Thailand…”

He smirks when Sherlock has this ‘pay attention to me’ look on his face. Of course, Sherlock would never dare verbalize this demand – he is too well-trained for that.

“Yes, it’s very lovely.” Sherlock says instead – the syllables sound forced.

“Oh pet – of course – you are lovely too.” Mycroft pulls up the top, exposing both of Sherlock’s pink pierced nipples. The rings sparkle enticingly under the dying sunlight – making Mycroft want to lick, nibble, bite and suck at them. “Hold that.”

Sherlock obediently holds up the lace, presenting his tits towards Mycroft by arching his back.

“Good boy.” Mycroft reaches for a pair of unused wooden chopsticks. He runs his fingers against the wood, making sure that they were perfectly smooth before affixing red rubber bands to the ends.

His brother’s eyes grow wide at this makeshift torture implement, especially as Mycroft tests the pressure of the sticks by sticking his finger between them. He makes two more of these wooden clamps with two more pairs of chopsticks. He sets the chopsticks aside for a moment and focuses his attention on his brother’s nipples – using his fingers to tug and pull at his sub’s rings. It isn’t long before Sherlock is squirming and mewling. The holes had definitely healed well – Mycroft notes.

He had also thought about stretching the piercings with larger gauge jewelry – so that he could hang heavier weights onto the flesh – so that when he fucks his pet – Sherlock’s nipples would be large, engorged with blood and visibly swaying with each thrust. But as they are – the piercings are already too noticeable under Sherlock’s lovely tight shirts – so Mycroft will leave them be.

Instead he takes one pair of chopsticks, pulls them apart and gently wedges one of his brother’s nubs between the sticks – causing Sherlock to recoil slightly and hiss at the pain. His pet’s other nipple gets treated in the same way. The tortured flesh stiffens and reddens further, and Mycroft could see Sherlock trying to deduce where the third pair of chopsticks is going to go.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock exclaims when he deduces where the third pair is going to go.

“Are you saying no – pet?” Mycroft asks with a modicum of amusement, while caressing his brother’s skirt – feeling the soft delicate material. “Let’s see what’s under here – you slutty little thing.”

Sherlock flushes when Mycroft takes the edge of his skirt and tucks it into the waistband to hold it out of the way, revealing his caged cock and vulnerable looking scrotal sac. The prick is already weeping precum at the slit, and Mycroft smiles. His hand grabs at his brother’s testicles and squeezes – gradually increasing the pressure, causing Sherlock to whimper, moan and eventually try and pull away from Mycroft’s hand.

“Say your safeword, and I won’t do it – pet. I understand if it’s too soon.” Mycroft releases Sherlock’s balls, before apologetically rolling them gently in his palm. “Or will you submit?”

Sherlock whines, but he shakes his head. It is clear that he does not want to safeword twice in one day – but Mycroft watches him carefully; he will end this if Sherlock genuinely doesn’t want to do it – regardless if Sherlock safewords or not.

“I want to submit.” Sherlock says a little bit later; his voice sounds rough.

“Alright.” Mycroft presses a kiss against his brother’s lips, before taking the third makeshift clamp and carefully wedges the sticks around Sherlock’s scrotum – just below the ring of his cock cage. He can feel his brother tremble. “I am going to let go slowly – now. Breathe in.” Mycroft offers.

Sherlock obeys – taking a noisy breath in, and Mycroft lets the sticks slowly close around the sac. He winces slightly and Mycroft asks, “That wasn’t so bad – hm?”

“Yes, Master.” Sherlock lets his head rest against his brother’s thigh – and Mycroft lets him have this indulgence.

“You look lovely like this – you know?” Mycroft reaches for one of Sherlock’s clamped nipples and gently plucks at it – causing Sherlock to make odd little noises. With his other hand, he gently smooths over Sherlock’s sweat drenched hair. “So beautifully submissive… Shall I fuck you today – beautiful boy?”

“Beach sex.” Sherlock murmurs dreamily – and Mycroft knows that Sherlock is beginning to enter subspace. “I want you – Mycroft.” He adds, his voice hazy with desire.

“Come up here, my love.” Mycroft gently orders.

.

.

On his third visit to Sherlock’s room, John finds the pictures. He had rifled through Sherlock’s wardrobe, looking through his expensive clothing and boxes containing things from Sherlock’s past – including Sherlock’s Bachelor’s certificate in Chemistry from Oxford. Finally, a small box, made out of some thick expensive matte material, hidden in a corner of the wardrobe had caught his eye. John carries it to Sherlock’s bed, where he opens it, revealing the photographs.

The first photo shows a beautifully presented pale arse with seven pairs of perfectly symmetrical cane stripes distributed evenly across the buttocks and thighs. John briefly admires the skill involved in creating those lines before moving onto the next picture. The second shows a cock locked in a cage – framed by purple lace from a pair of crotchless panties. John picks up the third picture – and stares; it features the same generous alabaster arse again – with an impressively sized cock breaching the anus. And the last image – is a lovely pale body with pierced nipples tied and suspended in the air by thick black ropes with a spiral weave.

John didn’t need to be a consulting detective to figure out that these were images of Sherlock – and he gulps.

_Oh my god._

John thinks.

_This is Sherlock._

Well, at least there is no risk of Sherlock entering the bedroom right now – his flatmate had gone abroad for an international case on behalf of his brother. He remembers Sherlock grumbling and complaining about the case over the last few days before he had finally sucked it up and packed. John had thought that the timing of the case was unusual – Sherlock had said he would be away for Christmas and New Year’s. It seems a bit odd to John that Sherlock seems to know how long the case would last.

Some part of him thinks that Sherlock went on vacation with his Dominant – but that was probably fanciful thinking. Sherlock doesn’t do vacations – from what John understood from the last few years of living with his eccentric (and beautiful?) flatmate.

He then realizes that there are words written in block letters at the back of each picture – perhaps to remove identifying information from the pictures – John guesses. On the back of the picture of the cane stripes there is:

_I wear the marks of Master with pride._

_I only wish that they could last forever._

The second one of Sherlock’s surprisingly gorgeous cock – at this point John might as well admit that he is bisexual; there is no other reasonable explanation otherwise – in those cruel-looking metal bars says:

_This (as does my entire body) belongs to Master._

In a smaller script – it reads:

_I will only be let out at Master’s pleasure._

And it completely explains why Sherlock no longer pisses at urinals. Experiment his arse – John muses.

The third one with the knob partially in Sherlock’s arse have the words:

_I live to be filled by Master’s cock._

_I am empty otherwise._

The final picture bears the legends:

_I exist for Master’s pleasure._

_No one loves me more than Master._

John knows that he is fucked. Truly and utterly fucked. He had finally sorted out the problems of his sexuality; birds just weren’t cutting it anymore for him. Not even his more serious FetLife encounters had done anything for him. Of course, he has this realization while Sherlock is out there exploring his own sexuality. He laughs somewhat bitterly – it turned out that everyone else was right – that he did have a crush on his flatmate. And, said flatmate seems to be in a serious relationship with someone else.

He sighs deeply.

But then again, John hadn’t gotten this far in life by giving up.

For fuck’s sakes – he’s Three Continents Watson for a reason.

He will make a plan and give this a good try.

.

.

Sherlock responds to the tenderness in his Master’s voice – feeling that odd sensation in his chest where his heart is. He nuzzles Mycroft’s neck and face when he makes it up to his brother’s lap. His tits and scrotum feel like they are slowly being roasted by a slow burning fire – but somehow – it is a pleasurable way to go. His brother kisses him frantically – and Sherlock groans when he realizes Mycroft is deliberately nibbling and sucking at the sensitive skin at his neck – leaving blooms of colour that are sure to last for a time.

He wishes he could get these hickeys tattooed or something – he wants Mycroft to possess him thoroughly. Own him.

Suddenly, Mycroft stands up – easily lifting Sherlock with him and he feels himself being carried to the side of the gazebo, where there were wicker couches with light and dark coloured cushions and pillows.

“Mm… so strong…” Sherlock murmurs and Mycroft laughs.

“You want to be manhandled by your Dominant – pet?”

“I want you to fuck me.” Sherlock’s voice is hoarse with desire. “But you are turning into a Neanderthal – brother.”

Mycroft tosses him unceremoniously onto one of the couches, causing Sherlock to make a noise that sounds surprisingly like a squeal of delight.

“You do have a nasty mouth – little brother.” His Master reprimands – but it’s all fondness.

And Sherlock watches hungrily as Mycroft carefully undresses. It is gorgeous – watching his brother take off his attire against the backdrop of the sun receding slowly below the horizon line; for dinner – Mycroft had dressed in a thin white shirt and a pair of his usual trousers.

Sherlock definitely wants more of these experiences; more of these fake cases with his brother – if it meant that they could have this.

“Let me show you all these pleasant skills that I’ve learned with my nasty mouth – Master.” Sherlock references a line that Mycroft had used earlier in the day.

“You want my cock – gorgeous pet?” Mycroft asks – teasingly. “My own personal kathoey?”

“I am anything you want me to be – Mycroft.” Sherlock means it – he wants to please his brother – and he wants it desperately.

Mycroft takes the two steps to Sherlock and rests the tip of his glans against Sherlock’s upper lip. Sherlock fights to keep still – it is like dangling an ice cream cone in front of a child.

“Good boy.” Mycroft uses his free hand to caress Sherlock’s sweat-coated hair. He then says solemnly – making Sherlock fall in love with his brother even more. “The only thing I want you to be, love – is mine.”

“I am yours. Only yours.” Sherlock whispers – his lips brushing against Mycroft’s mouthwatering prick.

“Suck my cock with your nasty mouth, then.” Mycroft orders – all gentleness.

Sherlock easily takes his brother’s cock all the way in – sucking at it with all the expertise he had – enjoying the demonstrative noises of pleasure that his brother allows him to hear. All too soon, Mycroft pulls out of Sherlock’s mouth and sits back down on the couch.

“Get on my cock – pretty boy.” Mycroft orders – his voice distorted by desire.

And Sherlock loves it – that he can get Mycroft to sound like this. He crawls over to his brother; whose fingers immediately slip under his dress to check his hole – which Sherlock had fingered and lubricated himself before dinner.

“You are a naughty little thing, aren’t you?” Mycroft asks with amusement. “Fingering your boy-pussy without my permission?”

“I wanted to be ready for you – Master.” Sherlock says – blushing intensely under the dim and timed lights of the gazebo.

“Would it be a punishment to let you cum, or to not let you cum – pet?” Mycroft asks – with gravity.

“I don’t know.” Sherlock admits.

Either is appealing to him. The conundrum is that Sherlock always wants to cum – but at the same time – especially under the spell of subspace – he would enjoy immensely the sensation of being denied.

“I think we better remove these now.” Mycroft gives one of Sherlock’s red and swollen nipples a rough flick – causing him to yelp. “Fucking would take too long. And we really should carefully build your tolerance to having clamps on you.”

Sherlock whines – not looking forward to the prospect of the removal of the clamps.

“They will have to come off, eventually – pet. And the longer we leave them on – the worse it will get.” Mycroft says – always the voice of reason.

He yelps in agony when Mycroft quickly removes the chopsticks – starting with his nipples. His brother carefully massages his abused flesh as circulation returns and presses gentle kisses on the tormented areas.

“So, do you want to cum or not – brother?” Mycroft asks again. “You can’t change your mind afterwards.”

“Mm…” Sherlock rubs his cheek against Mycroft’s shoulders. “You decide for me?”

“I want you to choose.” Mycroft says firmly.

“Then – no. Fuck me – brother.” Sherlock picks the option that would lead him to getting impaled by his brother’s cock faster. “Please.” He looks pleadingly at Mycroft.

.

.

 _God. This is beyond his deepest fantasies._ Mycroft is leaning back against the wicker couch with his arms leisurely spread against the top and his brother is slowly fucking himself on his cock; his pale back undulating up and down in a hypnotic manner, illuminated by the dim – dare he say, romantic – lights of the gazebo that had turned on automatically at some point. There is a refreshingly cool breeze blowing around the coast – a relief from the humidity earlier in the day. But definitely, a welcome change from the grim English weather that is no doubt blowing about at home. The sun has waned, casting the last of its light as twilight – slivers of muted yellows and pinks in the sky. His brother’s tight arse clenches beautifully around his prick – and Mycroft resists the urge to thrust, wanting to watch his sub do all the work for once.

The noises that emit from his brother are intelligible – little grunts betraying both desperation and pleasure. Mycroft wishes he can have a mirror – he wants to have a full view of his boy’s front – to see the flush on his brother’s face, those iridescent eyes scrunched up in concentration and eventually the few tears of frustration that would leak out at the end when Mycroft is about to cum. He reaches over and tugs at Sherlock’s cage – teasing his brother – before closing his fist around his pet’s flaccid penis. He strokes, and he hears Sherlock make a choked noise that sounds like a sob.

Without even looking, Mycroft knows that his boy’s cock is weeping – a visible proof of Sherlock’s arousal and need. He wonders if Sherlock regrets his earlier decision – because Mycroft would have happily let him cum with him if he had chosen the other choice. And before he knows it – he himself is at the cusp of orgasm, and his cock pulses stream after stream of ejaculate into Sherlock’s arse. A week’s worth – for the last time Mycroft had come was the last time Sherlock had done so. His brother whimpers despairingly – his whole body shaking with both exhaustion and unsatisfied arousal. Mycroft hooks an arm around his sub’s waist and pulls him back against him. He can hear the word ‘please’ repeated a few times under his brother’s breath, but Sherlock won’t beg him explicitly for release; they’ve played this game multiple times now – and Sherlock knows the rules. It doesn’t stop his boy from crying though – and Mycroft knows it’s a physiological reaction. But it doesn’t preclude him from whispering soothing and affectionate words into Sherlock’s ears.

“My lovely boy. You’ve been so good. So good. I love you.”

His prick eventually slips out of his brother’s well-fucked hole, and Sherlock twists around to snuggle against Mycroft – letting the frenzied state that he had worked himself into gradually dissipate.

There is a good chance that Mycroft would probably have to carry Sherlock back to the villa – but it’s a small matter.

“Love you, too.” Sherlock murmurs, and Mycroft bends his neck to kiss his brother’s curls. “Mm… sleepy… Happy…”

Mycroft suddenly has the insane urge to make a joke about the seven dwarves in Snow White – but he has a feeling that it would sail over his brother’s culturally ignorant head.

And happy is a word that he would use too.

“Mm… happy too, brother mine.” Mycroft says as Sherlock closes his eyes.

He turns his head to see the stars twinkling brightly over the sea, and his left hand reaches for his phone. And, he can see at once that someone had gone into Sherlock’s room back in London from one of the notifications on his phone.

His brother associates himself with the nosiest people – Mycroft thinks – bloody Ms. Adler had visited once, and Dr. Watson had gone twice.

But that will be a problem that he will delve into tomorrow. 


	25. Thailand (Part II)

What is his life? 

Sherlock ponders, as he partially hides behind a towering rock formation on the beach, probably defeating the purpose of this entire exercise that he had been sent out to do. Twisting his body to check his surroundings, he moans as the squares of fine sandpaper that his Master had attached to the accursed, tightly-tied and padded bikini top rubs pleasurably against his sensitive tits. His fingers reach down to lift the short bikini skirt, which barely covered his ass. People have been staring at his bottom, and probably at his front – looking for the telltale bulge of genitalia, which his brother had managed to tuck away rather cunningly after draining his balls of all their seminal fluid – culminating in the most unsatisfactory dry ‘orgasm’ that he’s ever had. Another evil technique used to deny him further; it is worse than the prostate-milking that Mycroft had done to him. And fucking hell, he had even been solicited once by an eager tourist interested in a ‘ladyboy experience’.

He had ‘tucked’ before when he had disguised himself as a woman in the past for cases, but not in the thorough way Mycroft had done for him. And certainly not as himself. His disguises all had personalities, quirks, stories and roles – but here, he is merely Sherlock. There is no hiding here. Mycroft wouldn’t allow him to. He allows his hand to run down his smooth crotch, it feels bizarre not to feel his considerably sized package. His brother had gently pushed each testicle upwards into their respective inguinal canal, wrapped some gauze around the tip of his cock to keep his urethra clean from the anal bacteria, pushed his penis down and back towards his perineum, and then taped it together with a few pieces of medical-grade paper tape. A special undergarment, made from the same flowery-patterned material as the bikini top kept everything in place. It’s not painful, but uncomfortable, and it makes Sherlock very aware of the existence of his own cock. Rather similar to how being caged at the beginning of his training had done so. Finishing this ensemble, is a dark choker that looks similar to his collar and a light amount of makeup that Sherlock had put on himself in the loo while Mycroft had watched, leaning casually in his immaculate linen suit against the doorframe. 

His phone vibrates. Sighing, he looks down at the screen.

_ Somehow, I sense that you are hiding. MH _

_ Had to, for my own sanity. SH _

_ My pretty boy, there is no need to be ashamed. MH _

_ Am I male or female? You keep switching pronouns on me. SH _

_ Does it matter? MH _

_ I guess not… Master. SH _

_ How do you feel? MH _

_ Embarrassed. I just got asked how much I charged for the night. Tourist. American. Likely from the Bible Belt judging by his accent. Taking a chance to experiment in a safe space away from home. SH _

_ How did you feel before that? MH _

_ Objectified. The natives don’t look twice, but the tourists definitely do. My bum, my fake padded tits; I’ve even seen people trying to figure out if I have a cock or not. One man stared at my neck for the longest time. SH _

_ How else? MH _

Sherlock sighs. This feels like one of his homework assignments. Lots of reflection about how he had felt and thought about various aspects of his submission, their relationship and even just life in general. But he knows his brother is genuinely interested in what he has to say and think, and if there’s anything wrong, Mycroft would quickly make amends or do whatever he could to fix the situation. 

_ I guess… I feel… I don’t know. I just wish you were here with me now. SH _

_ I know I am submitting to you. Giving up my dignity and masculinity to do so. It’s humiliating. It’s humbling. To do this as myself. But at the same time, there’s something strange inside of me that feels satisfied. I am afraid, Master, that I get off on humiliation. But you already know that. SH _

_ Meet me at Phra Nang cave, pet, in thirty. MH _

_ And my dearest one. Be proud of yourself as I am proud of you. Take pride in your acts of submission whether I am there with you or not. You are mine. Mine to do as I wish. There’s nothing strange with or about you, pet. I am humbled that you give me the liberty to Dominate you like this. It is a privilege to be your Dominant. Your Master. I sincerely hope you understand that. MH _

A tear streaks down one of Sherlock’s cheeks. He wipes it away with a sunscreen-coated hand. No, it doesn’t matter what the goldfish think of him. He stares and reads his brother’s last message until the words are seared somewhere easily accessible in his brain. As a submissive, he is his Master’s hedonistic creation – his Mycroft’s Sherlock. Everything and everyone else is irrelevant. 

_ I adore you. SH _

_ x I will see you soon. MH  _

Gathering the rest of his wits, Sherlock walks out of his hiding spot with his head held high. Let them leer – he thinks. His Master, after all, enjoys having people look and covet his property.

.

.

When someone grabs his arse, Sherlock is prepared to turn around and deck the culprit, only to find his brother looking terribly amused. For the beach, his Master had dressed down; he is wearing the shirt and trousers from the suit he had been wearing earlier. The top button is left undone, and a pair of sunglasses hangs at the edge of the vee. Some tantalizing fur escapes from the exposed shirt collar. A raised eyebrow conveys:  _ Problem? _

He shakes his head, letting his Master’s arm snake around his waist, enjoying the feel of the expensive fabric of his brother’s shirt against his bare skin. Mycroft twists his neck slightly to kiss him on the cheek and Sherlock lets out a happy little sigh, feeling all his burdens melt away. How he wants to sink down into the fine soft sand to his knees and submit! 

“Let’s take a look at this cave, pet. I heard it is quite a sight.” Mycroft says with a small smirk. “You know what this cave is famous for?”

Sherlock gives another shake of the head as they walk along the shore of the beach, next to the gorgeous green-blue seawater. There is a gathering of a few tourists at the enormous maw of the cave at the end of the beach; the rock layers gray, white, brown and reddish under the bright sunlight. His hand finds his brother’s – and his heart feels light and carefree, enjoying this simple pleasure of walking hand-in-hand with his lover.

“Oh…” Sherlock exclaims, as both his eyebrows shoot up when he sees the contents of the cave. “That’s a lot of cock, brother.”

“I thought a cockslut like you would appreciate the view.”

“Mm… is this some sort of temple?”

“Pet, fishermen used to come here. They still probably visit and leave their tributes. Legend has it that a sea princess used to live here, and before these sailors went out to sea, they would come here and leave offerings to ensure their success with fishing and protection against danger. Then, somehow, they started leaving phallic objects here – to ask for help with fertility.”

“God, Mycroft – I don’t want to be pregnant.” Sherlock replies, rather jokingly while noting the hundred or so assorted dildos made out of various materials stuck into the white sand in the deceptively small cave. Some are small, some would fit nicely into his hole, and others were far too large for any human being. “I just want your cock.”

“What a coincidence, I want yours too, pet.” Mycroft leads Sherlock out of the cave, and they go deeper into the dense thicket of trees – following the rocky cliffs that give the landscape such a dramatic otherworldly feel. 

They hike for for a few minutes, before Mycroft whisks him into a deep alcove worn into the rock. His brother sits on a rock that resembles a seat, while Sherlock immediately goes to kneel between his legs in the soft sand. They are close enough to the main beach to hear the sounds of tourists, and the rhythmic lull of the waves – crashing and receding from the shore.

“God, my pretty pet – you are so lovely. Just so lovely.” Mycroft says quietly, his voice roughened with reverence. 

His large hand caresses Sherlock’s cheek and jaw before roaming downwards. Sherlock swallows when he feels Mycroft’s fingers tighten slightly around his throat, but the pressure passes. The suggestion that his brother could asphyxiate him is enough to make his ‘tucked’ cock stiffen, increasing the discomfort. He squirms a little, but Mycroft keeps going, letting the palms of both his hands brush against his chest, and apply a little force to his bikini top – causing the sandpaper to rub against his nipples. Sherlock groans, and whimpers when Mycroft’s fingers slip underneath the fabric to roughly pinch at his sensitive sandpapered tits. 

“So beautiful. So responsive.” Mycroft whispers. “My gorgeous boy.”

“Master, please.” Sherlock gasps, when the cruel digits continue to pull and twist at his piercings. “I want…” 

“What do you want? Hm? Pet?

“I want to cum…” Sherlock resorts to begging, feeling the ache in his loins. He didn’t beg last night when his brother had fucked him in that gazebo, but he had pleaded earlier in the day to no avail, and now he will beg again. Shamelessly.

The hands are now stroking his taut abdominal muscles and sensitive sides, and Sherlock closes his eyes, trying to enjoy the sensations despite the desperation burning like an out-of-control wildfire down below. He doesn’t ever think he’s ever needed something this badly, not even during the days of his intravenous drug use. Well… maybe... It’s hard to say.

At some point, his brother helps him up, so that he is sitting on Mycroft’s lap. And then, he feels his brother pull at a bikini string, causing the skirt to loosen, and finally the gaffe holding his genitalia in place is pulled down, exposing his cock and balls to the air. He whines a little when his brother pulls off the tape, freeing his agonized cock and balls. The gauze is unraveled from his penis, and replaced by his Master’s hand. Which strokes his prick after gathering the precum from his slit. Mindlessly, Sherlock begins to thrust – seeking much needed friction, but Mycroft’s other hand stills him. “No, pet – if you move, I am going to stop and take my hand away.” 

“Mycroft…” Sherlock whines. “Please, more.”

His brother applies the perfect amount of ‘more’ and it feels so fucking good. His eyes are shut, and it takes all his willpower to not move – letting his Master’s skilled hand do all the work. Frigging his penis the way he likes it – with that special twist at the end. And then when he feels like he is about to approach the point of no return, the strokes gradually slow and Sherlock cries with frustration. “Please, Master. I want it. Please.” His hips buck, and his Master immediately withdraws his hand away from Sherlock’s prick. 

The sound that leaves Sherlock’s mouth is pure dismay. 

“You aren’t going to let me cum.” Sherlock deduces sadly, moments later, when Mycroft’s hand resumes its leisurely masturbation of his cock. 

“Not yet, my gorgeous boy.” Mycroft confirms Sherlock’s fears. “I want you desperate. I want you to beg. Maybe if you plead loudly enough, all those foreigners will hear you and come see you put on a little show. You would like that, wouldn’t you? Show them how desperately you want release, hm?”

“Yes, Mycroft – anything. I will do anything... But please, please, please – let me cum.” Sherlock buries his face into his brother’s shirt. His brother could ask anything of him right now, and Sherlock would agree to it. Nor would it matter if anyone actually walked by. And he howls in frustration when Mycroft lifts his hand away from his penis just as it begins to contract, bobbing up and down, releasing the tiniest volume of semen from his slit. When the contractions cease, his Master uses two fingers to devilishly rub against his frenulum in order to carefully bring Sherlock back to the edge again, allowing him to release a few droplets of cum, before denying him again. 

Tears of resignation soak into Mycroft’s shirt as Sherlock accepts this agonizing torment. Mycroft’s free hand gently touches his tear-stained cheek, and he whispers tenderly while continuing to bring Sherlock back to the brink – this time with his entire hand. “My good boy – accepting what I give to you. You staying so still for me. I had to tie you down earlier for this, don’t you remember? I will let you cum later today, I promise. I will make sure it feels good, darling pet. Not now. But soon.” 

Soft whines escape from Sherlock when his brother releases his cock again, allowing a few more drops of fluid to dribble from his slit. The cycle continues; both stimulation and denial, similar to the regularity of the waves hitting and receding from the shore. Sherlock is a sobbing wreck when Mycroft finally drains him completely, and he actually tries to resist when his Master finally strokes him to completion, feeling a highly unpleasant burning sensation thrum through his empty prick and testicles. He slumps down into Mycroft’s embrace at the end, feeling just as randy and unsatisfied as he had been at the beginning. Begging is absolutely useless, as there is no way he could cum now. His Master kisses him affectionately, which Sherlock returns. A hand fondly ruffles his curls, and Mycroft praises quietly, “You did well, pet. So well for me.”

.

.

Mycroft gently soothes his brother, calming him down with tender kisses and touches. It’s been a long while since he’s seen Sherlock beg like that, and the Dominant in him delights in it. Ha, Ms. Adler saying that she would make his brother beg twice for mercy. Amateur. Shaking his head at such thoughts, he presses another kiss onto Sherlock’s sweat-coated forehead, before tugging at the strings of his brother’s bikini top, leaving Sherlock completely naked. 

“How are you feeling, pet?” 

“Mm… drained… like my balls. Tired. Horny. Thirsty.” 

“We can fix one of those things.” Mycroft smiles, reaching for his bag placed down next to the rock he is sitting on. He pulls out a canteen of water, and carefully pours it into his brother’s mouth. Sherlock obediently swallows. 

“DIdn’t dare drink… Pissing seemed too complicated with my penis taped like that…”

Mycroft pours another mouthful of water and his brother drinks, thirstily. He then pulls out the tan linen shirt that Sherlock had worn in the morning, and drapes it over his brother’s back. Sherlock puts his arms through the appropriate holes and Mycroft buttons the garment. There is a look of relief on his boy’s face, once he realizes that he won’t be required to wear the bikini any longer. 

“I will leave your cock alone, pet. But, no touching.” Mycroft places his palm possessively over Sherlock’s genitalia, and he squeezes, causing his boy to squirm in a different sort of agony. 

“I will try…” Sherlock murmurs.

“You won’t like the result if you do, pet. Remember that.” Mycroft says, sternly.

“I will.”

“Good. I will even let you wear swim trunks.” 

“Thank you, Master.” Sherlock actually cranes his neck upwards to kiss Mycroft on the cheek in gratitude. “What are we doing after?” 

“The only thing I’ve got planned today is to do a night kayaking trip.”

“Kayaking, really?” Sherlock smiles, rather surprised. 

“To kayak or swim in a sea of bioluminescent plankton is apparently the touristy thing to do. Kasem will meet us at night and take us. He said today would be the best day for such an activity.”

“That actually sounds quite intriguing. So are we staying here for the night?”

“Kasem will take us back to the villa afterwards. But we won’t arrive back till late.” Mycroft then asks, “How would you like to cum, little brother?”

“For real? Or are you just teasing?”

“The former.” 

“Decide for me? But, please don’t draw it out too long… I might just die of sexual frustration.”

“Your wishes are noted.” Mycroft gives his brother a teasing smirk before leaning forward a little to kiss his gorgeous pink lips, made even pinker by the lipstick. 

.

.

“You rented a room?” His brother is surprised when they enter a hotel room, nicely furnished with ornate wooden furniture and soft linens a few hours later, after having explored the beach and swam in the sea.

“Just for an hour or two. Enough for me to take you apart before we go out to enjoy the sunset and the fire dances on the beach.” Mycroft then hooks his arm around Sherlock’s torso, and slips a hand into his swimming trunks. 

A moan escapes from his brother’s lips, when Mycroft encircles his prick with his fingers, applying the perfect amount of friction to the needy organ. 

“So beautiful, my little brother. My gorgeous pet. All mine. You are all mine.” Mycroft whispers, his breath ghosting against one of Sherlock’s ears. “Say it.”

“Fuck.” Sherlock swears, trying to stop his hips from bucking. “Mycroft… I.. am yours. All yours. No one else’s.”

His brother’s eyes are scrunched up with pleasure, and a bit of agony as he tries to prolong the inevitable climb towards climax. Mycroft unbuttons the top few buttons of Sherlock’s shirt, and allows his free hand to stroke his brother’s chest. His fingers lightly tease his brother’s pierced tits, gently pulling on the rings in turn, while his sub gasps with every tug. 

“Brother, Master – please.” Sherlock moans, almost brokenly, and Mycroft strokes harder and faster before whispering, “Cum for me, my precious pet.” And Sherlock does, ejaculating his seed into his swim trunks. He collapses in Mycroft’s arms bonelessly, relief written all over his features. 

Mycroft allows his brother a few minutes to get his bearings, and to enjoy the postcoital closeness, before ordering. “Wash and dry yourself off, pet. Then get onto the bed and present your pretty hole to me. I will give you ten minutes. Starting… now.”

.

.

Approximately nine minutes later, Sherlock dashes out of the bathroom, his hair still damp and curling madly, as naked as the day he was born. He springs himself onto the bed in a single graceful move, and assumes the position, elevating his delectable bum for Mycroft’s viewing pleasure. 

_ Slap! _

A groan escapes from him as Mycroft spanks his arse, leaving a reddened handprint against one of his generous cheeks. 

“I didn’t know that I was actually going to rent a room, but I did bring some things for you, pretty pet.” Mycroft climbs up the tall bed. “So here is what I have.”

Sherlock watches as the velvet bag containing his aubergine clothespins, a pair of nipple weights, a ball gag, a blindfold, a vibrator and two sets of anal beads (one with large beads gradually increasing in size, and another with uniformly large beads) get dropped in front of him. Another pair of clamps, attached to dark-cylindrical weights are added to the pile last. Intriguing. Sherlock thinks – he isn’t quite sure what those clamps do...

“You want me to pick?” 

“It’s your reward, pet.” Mycroft strokes Sherlock’s face, and his sub sighs, letting his head rest upon his brother’s hand. “I let you cum earlier to take the edge off.” 

“I didn’t thank you for my orgasm.” Sherlock suddenly remembers, “Thank you, brother.”

“Of course, dearest one.” Mycroft smiles at him. “You could have came yesterday.”

“Then you wouldn’t have been able to torment me today.”

“Ah, little brother… I can always find something to torment you. Do not underestimate your Dominant.”

“Never.” Sherlock gives a cheeky little smirk, which immediately gets kissed off. 

“So bloody irresistible.”

Sherlock gives a happy grin before saying “Mm… I want.” and he points to the mysterious clamps, one set of the anal beads and the blindfold. “You can spank me too.” He adds.

“I figured that was already on the menu.” Mycroft puts the other items away, while mentally storing away the image of his brother genuinely grinning. A happy smile just for him. If he had known that corrupting his wayward sibling could have yielded such lovely results, he might have done it ages ago. 

“Can I suck your enormous cock too,  _ big  _ brother?”

“Later.” Mycroft promises. “Now do you even know what these are?” He picks up the dark clamps. 

“They look like weights of some sort.” Sherlock muses.

“Vibrating clamps.” Mycroft informs. “I could clamp these onto your little tits, and turn them on.” At Sherlock’s wide-eyed look, he then adds. “Well, brother dear – your only task is to cum when I tell you to. Understand? And you do have safewords if the sensations get to be too much. Remember that.”

“Traffic lights. Red for stop; yellow for pause and green for keep going.” Sherlock recites, while Mycroft sees that his brother is already starting to get into that submissive space that he couldn’t reach earlier on in the day. Probably too overstrung by the denial. 

“I am going to blindfold you first, darling boy.” Mycroft says as he kneels next to Sherlock, taking his time to massage Sherlock’s broad shoulders and running his palms along his sides. “I want you to feel everything that I do to you.” The silken dark blindfold is then tied snugly around Sherlock’s head.

Sherlock moans in agonized pleasure when Mycroft’s clever fingers grasp and pinch both of his nipples simultaneously, feeling his cock fill once more. Fuck. He loves it when his brother abuses his tits like that. Pushing his chest further into his Master’s devilish hands, he silently demands more, which Mycroft provides by pulling and twisting mercilessly at his piercings; his nubs hardening and swelling with blood with such manipulations.

“I wonder, pet – if I could make you cum from nipple stimulation alone.” Mycroft muses, even though he has a feeling that the answer is no. Sherlock needs some sort of stimulation to his cock or prostate to actually get off. But it would be a fun and sadistic game to torment his sub with for another day. 

A disappointed sigh falls from Sherlock’s lips when Mycroft finally releases his tits, before he hisses in pain when the clamps are applied. He gasps when Mycroft allows the weights (which are the vibrators) to drop, and they pull nicely at his nipples. An indescribable noise – almost like a mewl – escapes him when Mycroft actually licks the tip of each one of his tits, surprising him with the contrasting sensations. 

“Now, the beads.” Mycroft picks up the string of different sized beads. Should he mention to Sherlock that these have vibrating features as well? It might be too much – he thinks… considering that Sherlock has never experienced the delights of such toys before. Ah, he will just judge the situation. His brother’s body would tell him. Or his words.

A lubricated finger penetrates into Sherlock’s hole after gently teasing the sensitive skin surrounding the orifice; reflexively, his well-trained muscles are trying to suck the digit in. He sighs with pleasure, trying to resist pushing his arse back for more. Master chuckles lightly – he can almost hear the smile in Mycroft’s laugh. “Such a greedy slut, pet.” He closes his eyes, despite the blindfold, when the second finger goes in, scissoring him carefully, but quickly. The digits vanish, causing him to whine softly and Mycroft laughs again, “Don’t worry pet, there’s plenty for your hungry hole.” 

“Please.” Sherlock pleads, certain that he had never used this word so many times in his life until today. 

“So polite, my pretty pet.” 

A well-lubricated, hard, solid and unyielding piece of silicone brushes against his hole. The first one, if Sherlock remembered correctly, is slightly larger than a ping-pong ball. Master gently pushes the bead against his hole and he moans lightly when the sphere begins to penetrate him – his muscles already rhythmically contracting, accepting and taking the bead deep within his arse. 

Mycroft tugs at the string, pulling the bead back – causing Sherlock to whimper, and watches in amusement as the well-trained arse of his sub sucks the bead back in, deep.

“Such a slutty arse you have.” Mycroft observes, pleased – the comment causes Sherlock to flush slightly; not as much as he would have at the beginning of his adventure as a submissive. It has taken some time to accept that words like ‘slut’, ‘whore’, ‘boy’ and other things along those lines are desirable to be. And are terms of endearment. “The second one, pet.” Mycroft presses the slightly larger bead directly against his brother’s arse, watching the ring of muscle open up to accept the second bead. Sherlock grunts with this larger one, struggling a bit, but it goes in as well. 

It is the fourth one – slightly over two inches in diameter that gives Sherlock trouble. The bead stretches his arse mercilessly wide open. He whimpers softly, and feels the slow burn as the silicone finally slips past his sphincter and joins the other three beads. Full – his arse is beginning to feel rather full, and if he recalled, there are six of these things on the string he had picked. Good god, how big are the last two? But he isn’t one to give up when the going got tough – remembering that enormous tunnel plug he had up his arse a while back.

“Shh… pretty pet. Do you think you can handle another?” Mycroft asks. 

“I… can. Master. Please let me have it.” 

The fifth one makes Sherlock tremble, as his arse tries to accept it. He scrunches his eyes tight, and tries to control his breathing, trying to relax his sphincter muscles. The bead is ruthless, making him feel as if he is being split apart. His fingers grip at the bedsheets – fisting them in his hands, and he could feel sweat start dripping down his forehead. Just before the maximum diameter of the bead breaches him, he involuntarily cries out, “It’s too much.”

Mycroft’s other hand rubs comfortingly against the small of his back. “It’s smaller than my fist, brother – you can take this one. I promise. You are almost there…” 

And Sherlock gasps when the widest part of the bead slips past his sphincter and he half moans and sobs, muffling his noises in the nearby pillow. 

“Should we save the last one for next time?” Mycroft asks, somewhat delicately. “It’s actually rather large.”

“Mmphf! No!” Sherlock exclaims, immediately regretting his sudden motion as the beads within him shifted, pushing deliciously against his prostate. He moans desperately, enjoying the frissons and the intermittent aching of his clamped and weighted tits. A beautiful counterpoint of both pleasure and pain. “Gimme!”

“Manners, pet!” His Master sounds more amused, rather than anything.

“Damn it, Mycroft – please, please, please – give it to me.” 

_ Slap! _

Sherlock gasps loudly. Master hadn’t even slapped him that hard, but the spank forces the beads to again roll against his sensitive spots and the moan that escapes from him is actually obscenely embarrassing. The last bead, feeling rather like the final antagonist in any video game, kisses his arse, and he bites his lip to stave off the other humiliating noises that threaten to bubble up from his larynx and escape into the world. 

_ Slap! _

“I do recall myself saying many times to not suppress your noises. Come on, pet – I do want to hear you. Don’t make me punish you for such a simple infraction.” 

“I am sorry, Master – please don’t punish me.” Sherlock manages to mumble out as the final bead – so gloriously big – stretches him wide – probably wider than Mycroft’s fist. Or so he estimates. It’s hard to tell. The burn feels so fucking incredible. His body is trembling and shivering with this pleasure – and somehow, he finds himself wishing for more beads after this monster. And, yet – he sighs with relief once it slips past his tight ring of muscle to join its other friends. 

“Good?” Mycroft asks. “Does your slutty arse feel satisfied, for once?”

“Yes, Master. My… slutty arse… feels incredibly full.” Sherlock agrees, finding the syllables still hard to say – even though his brother has asked him to answer questions like this throughout their entire time together. The last tatters of his pride are difficult to eliminate completely. 

“Want to try out the vibrating components of your toys, pet? Or have you had enough?” Knowing Sherlock, asking these questions are useless – his ever-curious brother would keep chasing more and more until he hit a brick wall. But Mycroft asks regardless, just in case Sherlock realizes that he does have limits. 

“Oh god. Yes. Turn them on!” 

If Sherlock had ever wondered what it is like to die literally from pleasure, this is it. Without warning, the vibrations travel through his nipple clamps, sending incredible pulsations to his tits; the damnable beads – how dare Master not tell him that they are also vibrating – are literally making him see stars, rattling against his prostate in such a sinfully sweet way. And then he realizes that his hips – of their own volition – are humping desperately against a plump pillow that Mycroft had placed under his arse and thighs, forcing the beads to jar against his prostate and the other pleasurable spots along the walls of his anal canal – and he finds himself suddenly precariously close to the edge.

“Yellow!” He almost shrieks, and Mycroft shuts the toys off – leaving him trembling with ghostly sensations of pleasure. “Oh god. Oh, my god.” He pants as if he had just ran several kilometres, his fingers releasing their deathgrip on the sheets. “I almost came. Fuck.. fuck.. Fuck.”

His brother tenderly caresses his sweat-drenched hair. “I am impressed, pet. I deplored that you would ever know what self-control is.”

“I do know what it is, I just choose not to exercise it at times.” Sherlock’s cheek earns him another slap, causing him to moan, rather brokenly. God. He needs to cum soon; his hyperstimulated body is really reaching the limits of what it could take. 

“Impertinent as always, I see.” 

“You like it.”

“Mm… I do.” Mycroft kisses him. “You ready to cum now, or do you have more cheek you feel the need to impart?” 

Sherlock lets the attitude die. When it comes to orgasms, he better tread carefully, or end up denied again for who knows how long. He likes the denial at times, but that is not what he wants right now. “I would like to come, Master, if it pleases you.” He replies, his tone deferent and yet breathless with his need. 

“It would please me very much, pet. Beg for it.” Mycroft gives the string of beads a light, teasing tug.

Sherlock lets out a helpless whimper. “God, please – Master, make me cum.” 

Mycroft smiles at the tableau laid out in front of him. His vain brother, so hot and bothered, beyond caring about how wanton he looks and acts as long as he gets to cum within the next several minutes, begging for release. Sometimes, he still has to pinch himself, to see that this is really his reality. That he gets Sherlock all to himself like this; a willing submissive desperate to please, and so receptive to the pleasure that Mycroft gives him. He tugs at the rubber ring at the end of the string of beads, and pulls. His brother shakes and trembles while odd, almost animalistic noises leave his mouth when the largest bead stretches out his sphincter again. A gasp escapes from Sherlock once Mycroft finally pulls out the bead, having let it linger so tantalizingly in his sphincter.

“Fuck. Feels good… More! Please, Master.” 

The second ball, being smaller in girth, does not quite have the same effect as the first – but the quick way Mycroft pulls it out causes the rest of the beads to rub against his pleasurable spots and Sherlock virtually yelps “Fuck!” while his hips, once again, start humping the pillow uncontrollably. “God, brother – please.” 

“Oh my fucking god…” Sherlock gasps moments later when Mycroft deftly pulls out the rest of the string in one go, and he cums rather explosively for the second time in the same day. He collapses against the bed, in his own mess – and he is absolutely exhausted. Bloody hell, how is he supposed to go kayaking now? His brother crawls up to him to pull off the blindfold, and taps at him, gesturing for him to roll over, and he does. Fuck. The clamps. 

“Ready?” Mycroft whispers to him, and Sherlock weakly nods, wincing as Mycroft carefully unclamps each one from his abused nipples, which are looking swollen, red and angry. He sighs when his Master bends over to lick and suck apologetically at the tender flesh. 

“Mm…” Sherlock sighs and Mycroft looks up to kiss him. “Should I?” He looks meaningfully at Mycroft’s obvious erection.

“No pet, you don’t have to. Rest. I can take care of it myself if I have to.”

“I want to.”

“I solemnly promise that I will not orgasm without you.” Mycroft fondly strokes his hair. “Take a nap. I know you get sleepy after sex. We will go have dinner at the beach afterwards.” 

“You are the best, Master. I love you.” Sherlock murmurs, before falling asleep.

Mycroft smiles, as he tucks the blankets around his brother’s naked form. He then gets up to freshen up himself, before they would have to relinquish the room.

.

.

“Luciferin-luciferase.” Sherlock whispers the chemistry of bioluminescence in plankton to himself when they are kayaking in the gentle seas, lit by starlight. Their little one-person seacrafts are made out of strong transparent fibreglass, allowing them to see the sparkles of blue-green in the waves and the luminescent blue surrounding their kayaks. As they disturb the waters, the plankton, or rather the dinoflagellates come to life – emitting their uncanny light. Mycroft paddles slightly behind him, while their guide, Kasem, is in front, just simply showing them the way. 

The waves are calm, and Sherlock deliberately tips over his kayak, allowing himself to fall into the sea when they stop. The waters are reasonably shallow here, he can stand on the seafloor. He waves his arms in the sea, marveling at the otherworldly glow that seem to emit from his arms: no wonder the ancients believed that magic existed – he muses. 

“Mycroft!” He calls out, as Kasem snaps a few pictures of him frolicing in the waters, before heading over to secure Sherlock’s drifting kayak. “Join me!”

As an added incentive, he splashes the salty water all over his brother, who playfully tips over his own kayak, and he almost squeals with delight when Mycroft chases after him, his front crawl bringing him closer to Sherlock with every stroke. A noisy water fight breaks out in the otherwise peaceful sea; they enjoy spraying each other with the sparkly seawater, before Mycroft finally grasps Sherlock firmly by the torso and dunks him soundly into the waters, until he feels like he cannot breathe. When he finally emerges, spluttering and breathless, Mycroft hugs him tight and whispers with the stars, the slim crescent moon and the plankton as their witnesses. And of course, Kasem – but Sherlock knows that the man had signed a non-disclosure agreement, and that Mycroft had done something invaluable for Kasem’s politically-connected father. 

“I love you, dearest one. My beautiful sub. If it were possible to pursue matrimony, I would propose to you right now. In lieu of that, I vow to care for you, cherish you and love you till death do us part.”

Fuck. Sherlock finds himself tearing up again. Wedding vows. In the middle of the bloody sea. What happened to the man that claimed caring was a disadvantage? Ah. But he never claimed he didn’t care, didn’t he? His brother had loved him for a long time in this incestuous way. 

“Mycroft…” He whispers hoarsely while nuzzling his face against his brother’s naked and furry chest. “I love you too. I am already yours in every way that matters. I can’t fathom living without you; my Master, my lover, my brother – my teacher. And, I hope that we are together beyond this lifetime. Forever. You make me want to believe that there is something after this plane of existence.”

Sherlock looks up into the bright eyes of his lover, his Mycroft, and they kiss happily. 


	26. Thailand (Part III): The Texts

“I have a gift for you, pet.”

Mycroft says as they walk into the expansive, modernly decorated bedroom of their villa long after midnight.

“It’s only Christmas Eve.” Sherlock cannot help but to observe.

Shrugging, his brother replies. “Does it really matter?” 

Ignoring the canopied bed with its curtains of fine white linen, Mycroft heads toward the chaise next to the enormous windows looking out into the courtyard where the sizable pool is located, dimly illuminated by cotton-covered lanterns next to the walkways of wooden logs. After casually brushing away the invisible lint from the seat, his brother sits down. “Come here and kneel, slut.”

Stretching his arms out while fighting to suppress a yawn, Sherlock sighs wearily – he had been hoping to go directly to bed. It had been a long day. He can smell the salt of the Andaman Sea on his person; the echoes of their happy laughter as they splashed and frolicked in the bioluminescent waters still ring in his ears. They had caught a few winks when Kasem had brought them back to the villa by yacht. 

Remembering that Master had issued an order, Sherlock reluctantly walks over, his feet heavy against the dark hardwood flooring. Slowly, he sinks to his knees between Master’s legs. 

“Good boy.” Master croons, gently – the praise beginning to perfuse Sherlock in something warm and fuzzy. “I know you are tired, dear one. But, I thought it would be fitting to give you your present now.”

“Mm…” Sherlock rests his head against his brother’s inner thigh, one cheek against the soft and light coloured fabric of the chaise. He then adds somewhat regretfully, “I didn’t get you a present, Master.” It had totally slipped his mind. He had never been good about remembering these things. 

“Didn’t expect you to, pet.” A gentle hand combs through his saltwater tousled hair. Sherlock’s body relaxes readily with this affectionate touch; it feels like he is floating on a cloud. How did he live without this before? He wonders. 

Master says, his tone one of awe, of reverence. “My darling. Your submission, given so freely, so willingly, is a priceless gift. That you give me the privilege… the trust to love and care for you, beautiful boy.” His knowing fingers continue to caress, descending slowly to rub against a sharp zygomatic arch. 

Sherlock whispers “I love you, Master.” as he gazes upwards – his eyes sparkle in an ethereal manner – daring to meet Mycroft’s pale blue eyes. Under the muted illumination of the space, Mycroft does not think he’s seen a sight more beautiful. “Where is my present?” Sherlock then asks, curious – reminding Mycroft of a much younger and innocent Sherlock who would make an eager beeline for the presents under the tree at the first light of Christmas Day. 

Chuckling indulgently, Mycroft continues to let his digits roam along the structure of Sherlock’s face. “Let me unwrap my present first, boy.” 

Sherlock sighs, when the hand lightly cups his jaw, before reaching downwards to unbutton his linen shirt.

Although Mycroft has had the pleasure of gazing upon the nakedness of his sub many times, he still loves removing the garments that sheathe his pet’s body usually so tightly, revealing the loveliness underneath. “Gorgeous boy.” He remarks, openly admiring the interplay of shadows on alabaster skin covering his brother’s smooth, but sculpted chest. The few scars Sherlock has on his person only add to the image. His sub had gained weight – looking healthier than he had done before; Mycroft can observe since Sherlock had become his collared submissive, but he knows better than to utter that observation. 

“You mean it all.” Sherlock murmurs, somewhat dreamily.

“Of course I do.” Mycroft gives him an adoring smile. “Take off the rest of your clothes, brother – and you may crawl to the desk across from us and open the bottom drawer. Bring the box to me.” 

Without even thinking about it, Sherlock quickly divests himself of all his clothes, before crawling to the desk. Mycroft watches as his sub’s hips sway hypnotically, enjoying the curve and plushness of those gluteus maximi. The reddened handprints from earlier had faded. His brother reaches for the bottom drawer and pulls out a simple matte-finished dark box. With amusement, Mycroft observes as Sherlock ponders how to bring the box back. His sub then places the box on his back between his scapulae, and gingerly crawls back – his dear face scrunched up in concentration. 

“Thank you, pet.” Mycroft picks up the box, as Sherlock politely lowers himself further. “You may kneel, as you were doing before.” 

“Yes, Master.”

“You may open it. Your gift. Or rather, gifts.” 

Sherlock tugs the dark ribbon off the box, and lifts the lid. 

“Oh.” He marvels, as Mycroft carefully lifts one of the adornments from the velvet-lined box. A bespoke torc. Gold. The same shade matching the D-rings in his collar and cuffs. Resembling a wreath of olive leaves. 

“I know that you wanted to wear something around your neck all day long, Sherlock. You can wear this under your shirts, and when you come over, you can switch it for your collar.”

“Thank you, Master.” Sherlock shuffles over closer to Master, lowering his head so that the torc could be placed. Master’s hand brushes lightly against his skin, before the golden wreath encircles his neck. There is an unexpected heft to the torc and a tightness against his neck. Just like everything else he wears for Master, it will remind him constantly of his status of being owned and loved. And, Sherlock is sure the choice of olive leaves is deliberate – he will have to search up the significance when he is back at Baker Street, itching for something to do.

Mycroft switches out Sherlock’s silvery nipple rings with thick golden ones, and finally he takes out a cock cage, plated with the same shade of gold as the rest of Sherlock’s new presents. His pet’s eyes widen at the new adornment – it is smaller than his previous cage, sized to fit his flaccid cock perfectly, any sort of attempted erection would immediately be unforgivingly punished.

“Mycroft…” The device fills Sherlock with part dread and arousal.

“My gorgeous boy, all adorned in gold. A prince of the olden times. Or a fallen god.”

“A tribute from a fallen kingdom.” Sherlock whispers, warming up to the game. Any thought of sleep had instantly disappeared from his mind as he paints a fantasy. “The kingdom is in tatters, ravaged by your army. You are a general – a strategist – in your battle armor – your blade by your side. A veteran of many successful campaigns. The mere whisper of your name brings fear across the land. My Father, the fallen king, watches ashfaced as one by one the treasures of our lands – the gold, the jewels, the prettiest maidens – get paraded past him, and into the willing hands of your soldiers.”

“The treasures eventually stop coming, and yet – I wait.” Mycroft continues, imagining himself dressed in steel plate – his broadsword out, impaling the hard ground beneath. Patiently he would stand, with the other hand holding the reins of his loyal steed – his Bucephalus. “And finally… finally – you walk out. In your robed finery, a wreath of golden olive leaves encircling your neck.”

“My eyes would blaze with defiance. My Father is dismayed – for you have taken his last son – his favourite son for your tribute.” Sherlock stands up at this point. His back is straight, his posture proud and his eyes actually flash defiantly at Master, who simply smiles. A haughty prince.

“I eschew the gold, the treasures and the maidens, leaving them for my men to fight over. The emperor, at my request, gives me – you as a reward for engineering our latest conquest. After the feast held in honour of our victories, I find you in my private chambers – brought up by my loyal servants. Silent. Unmoving. Refusing to acknowledge my presence. It doesn’t matter anyways, I walk up to you and without a word, I tug at the golden tie that holds your blue robes together revealing the perfection that is your body.”

Sherlock smiles wryly at the compliment. Master had stood up as well by now. Before Master could put his hands on Sherlock’s naked body, he pushes Master away. “You intend to use me – the last heir of an ancient and noble land – in this crude manner? By gods, how common could you be?”

“At the end of the day, I am merely a man.” Mycroft steps forward.

“Then you are a fool. It’s not too late to go bed someone willing. I will kill you in your sleep.” There is a delicious amount of rebellion in Sherlock’s irises. 

Mycroft reaches for Sherlock, who immediately resists. They fight, grappling almost desperately with each other, using every trick in the book – Sherlock determined to escape from his big brother’s clutches. Finally after a few minutes of this sweat-inducing struggle, Mycroft pins Sherlock down against the bed. Both of them are panting lightly with the exertion.

“Now, now. Let’s not make this so hard for yourself – pretty boy.”

“Pretty boy?!” Sherlock grits his teeth in fury, practically spitting out the words in disdain. 

“Yes, you are. God, look at you. I wanted you as soon as I first laid my eyes on you.” Mycroft says, keeping one hand threateningly against Sherlock’s neck, and the other, carefully stroking the soft skin of his chest. “If you do not recall, pretty boy –” It earns him another glare, but Mycroft ignores it. “I like conquests. Challenges. Things earned and accomplished through the application of careful thinking and work.”

“It’s a disease with you. You conquer something, and then you move onto the next.” The words come out somewhat depressed.

Mycroft tugs at a nipple ring, eliciting a moan form Sherlock that he had not been intending to make. God. He is making this too easy for his brother. His Master grins. “Not so rebellious now, aren’t you?”

“Damn it.” Sherlock curses, and moans wantonly again when his brother twists his other nipple, causing the perfect amount of pain to go straight to his prick. “Fuck.” He whimpers when Master’s lips graze against his sensitive neck, near his right carotid. His body completely surrenders to Master’s touch when those same lips cunningly suck on the delicate curve of his right ear. 

“That may be true with kingdoms, gorgeous boy, but I intend to take you as my bride – for me to conquer over and over again.” 

Master’s teeth and lips works on a piece of skin at a particularly sensitive part of his upper neck, and Sherlock helplessly writhes under this treatment – it is especially hot knowing that Master intends to leave a hickey there. “Master, please.” Sherlock whines, completely losing the character that he had been playing earlier. 

“Ah, you learn quickly.” Mycroft lifts up his head – giving his boy a pleased smile, before putting his fingers against Sherlock’s mouth. “Suck, boy. Get them really wet, for that’s all your pretty little hole is getting.”

Taking his brother’s digits into his mouth, Sherlock sucks at them like he is blowing Master’s cock, using his tongue to get them thoroughly coated with saliva. A little bit of a thrill dances up his spine – he knows this is as close as Master would fuck him raw. But then, he remembers who he is – and he squirms, trying to get away.

“Ah, ah… ah. No.” Mycroft says firmly, using his free hand forcefully to keep him pinned on the mattress. 

“You are going to fuck me.” Sherlock says, his voice tinged with arousal at the fact that Master is overpowering him physically, but at the same time, trying to sound resigned. 

“Brilliant deduction.” Mycroft smirks to himself, although Sherlock cannot see it from his current vantage point. 

“I am lower than a whore. At least whores get paid.”

Damn. His brother is an excellent actor. The bitterness in Sherlock’s voice sounds incredibly real. Some part of Mycroft’s heart aches – as much as he and Sherlock loves these scenes of non-consent, sometimes it feels too close to reality. And considering the romance had happened earlier – this is not the way Mycroft had envisioned having his brother afterwards.

“Mycroft…” Sherlock twists his head to look at him, his eyes concerned – once again breaking out of character. “I am okay.”

“I know. I just…”

“Should we stop?”

“No, we should finish it. Just sentiment.”

“Mm… okay.” Sherlock recognizes the signs of Dom drop – he had read about it. 

“No, you aren’t a whore. You are mine.” Mycroft uses one arm to roughly curl around Sherlock’s torso, his fingers pressing lightly and possessively against his boy’s throat. He can feel his sub gulp. His other hand drifts to the wrinkled orifice, tucked away between his sub’s generous buttocks. 

Sherlock holds in his urge to moan when the saliva coated digits tease his hole – determined not to give in. The slight pressure against his throat arouses him beyond reason. He can breathe easily, but he knows that it is the mercy of Master that grants him the right of drawing breath. He states with disgust. “You are going to mount me like the dog you are.”

“Precisely.” Mycroft slips his fingers into Sherlock’s already loosened hole, slicking the canal with saliva. “I will breed you like one too. And perhaps, I will bite you to claim you. Ah, you actually like this idea. You pretend to not like this – but, pretty boy – your cock begs to differ.” 

“M’not a pretty boy.” Sherlock complains loudly, before the groan of undeniable pleasure finally escapes him when Master’s cunning digits brush nicely against his prostate. He sighs when the fingers are removed, and Master’s spit-coated cock immediately breaches his hole – slowly. It burns slightly, but Sherlock already wants more. “God… please.” 

“Take it, pretty boy.” Mycroft speeds up his thrust in, causing Sherlock to gasp, making strange noises of pain, of pleasure. He fucks in and out of his boy, while periodically tightening his grip on his sub’s neck – offering the constriction and a bit of the discomfort associated with the restriction the airway, his power over his brother – without actually choking him. His brother had asked to experiment with this, but this is a limit of Mycroft’s – there is really no safe way to do this. 

Sherlock is hardly aware of the strange sounds emitting from his larynx – muffled somewhat by the pressure of Master’s hand. He can feel his prick harden and drip generously with precum when his brother’s large hand tightens against his throat, actually restricting his breathing a tad, before finally letting go. It surprises him – that Mycroft is willing to straddle a more than reasonable hard limit of his to satisfy a curiosity of his. Remembering that he is an unwilling captive, he tries to temper his arousal, resisting the inevitable climb towards the climax –  but Master chuckles as he pounds his arse. “You will submit to me, little prince.” A hand reaches for his neglected cock, and proceeds to stroke – bringing him even closer to the edge.

“God, you are cruel.” Sherlock gasps, trying to resist bucking his hips, avoiding his natural inclination for more friction. “This is completely unfair.” He whines.

“Cum. Now.” Mycroft orders sternly.

Sherlock’s body – which had been fighting a losing battle from the very beginning – capitulates immediately, releasing spurts of seminal fluid which coats his Master’s hand. His body is too well-conditioned to be receptive to the pleasure Master gives him. He moans again, involuntarily, when Master ejaculates deep within him, claiming him from deep within. The prick slips out, and Sherlock finds himself obediently licking his cum off his brother’s digits. 

“Mycroft…” Sherlock stands up, still dazed from the postcoital hormones. He takes the two steps and throws himself into his brother’s arms, before pressing a kiss on the cheek. “Master.” He whispers, as Mycroft’s limbs tighten around his torso. “I love you, my gorgeous brother. Let’s take a shower and go to bed?” He asks. 

“Of course.” Mycroft replies, basking in his sub's unrestrained affection and care. He allows Sherlock to lead him to the adjacent loo, with its luxurious bathtub and generous shower space. 

.

.

For the first time and despite his own exhaustion, Sherlock washes his brother in the shower, taking care to not miss a spot. Master surrenders to his ministrations, relaxing into the worshipful caresses and kisses that Sherlock liberally offers. There is a peace that settles within him as he tends to Mycroft in this way. Nothing sexual happens in the shower, they are both far too knackered. 

“Are you going to lock me up afterwards?”

“Do you want to be in chastity?” Mycroft asks, as he takes the bar of soap from Sherlock to start returning the favour. 

“That’s your prerogative, Master.”

“Then, I will lock you up, pet. I think I will permit you one orgasm on Christmas, and then nothing till your birthday.”

“We will meet up then?” Sherlock asks eagerly. He is not one to celebrate the day he emerged from the womb, but a night with Master is always welcome. Always needed.

“Of course. I asked Anthea to put aside the date months ago.”

“I am going to miss you.” The words come out forlorn. 

“You will still see me regularly, little brother.” Mycroft replies tenderly, while gesturing Sherlock to rinse himself off after he had been appropriately covered in lather. 

“It’s not the same.” 

“I know. It’s how we must live. And we can’t stay together all the time – we would drive each other insane at some point. Let’s not talk about this now. We’ve got until the first till we have to get back to London.”

“I want to live with you.” 

“Considering the current circumstances, that would be unwise.”

“I know. It’s a fantasy. But maybe, some day…”

“Perhaps when Dr. Watson finds himself a partner.”

“Some boring woman, I suppose.” Sherlock supplants, completely oblivious to the actual reality of the situation. 

Mycroft sighs as he shuts off the water. He had seen the latest feed capturing Dr. Watson’s foray into Sherlock’s bedroom the previous morning, when his brother had left the bed before Mycroft had woken up and had gone for a walk around the periphery of the villa by himself. It isn’t just curiosity that is fueling these privacy-breaking visits; this time Mycroft can see that Dr. Watson had accepted his bisexual nature, and from the stubborn set of his jaw when contemplating the erotic photographs – he knows that Dr. Watson isn’t going to let Sherlock go without a fight. 

.

.

The discomfort of his cock attempting to swell against its cage awakens Sherlock from his slumber. Damned nocturnal erections. He had gotten used to it with his old cage, but with this new golden one, it hurts more. Quietly, he switches on the lamp, and examines his prick – still attempting to swell against its confines. He whimpers, the pain fueling his arousal in this futile positive-feedback loop. Grabbing his phone from the nightstand, eager for a distraction, he unlocks it, seeing messages from various people.

_ The party is not quite the same without you. It’s… too normal. Not enough hurt feelings. Or witty sarcasm. Merry Xmas. GL _

_ I didn’t know you weren’t going to be there, Sherlock. Missed you. I brought you a present too. Merry Christmas! Molly xoxo _

_ I hope you are being a good boy this Christmas for your Master. Or perhaps, a bad one. The naughty subs are always so much more fun. I plan to have Kate all decked out in candles. She would make a fetching centrepiece. IA x _

_ I wish you were here. JW _

_ I am going to Harry’s tomorrow, but I would much rather spend it with you. JW _

The texts keep popping up.

_ Fck… I am tipsy. JW _

_ You say u r on a case out of the country, but I think that is a farce. JW _

_ What does he have that I do not have? JW _

Sherlock pauses at that text. What does that even mean? If he had to deduce, out of the context that John is not gay, it almost seems like his flatmate is jealous… but why now? 

_ I could do all of that. Spank u, cane u, dominate u. Lock u up, if that’s what u wanted. Fuck ur tight hole. JW  _

He types cautiously. The imagery makes him nauseous. He doesn’t want anyone touching him like that except for his lover. And, he has a feeling Mycroft will not tolerate someone actively trying to chat him up. Drunk or not. Damn, he sincerely hopes this is John making a fool out of himself, rather than his flatmate actually trying to hook up with him… 

_ John. Stop drinking and go to bed. SH _

_ What I have with Master is none of your business. And I am on a case. SH _

_ And I thought… to quote you that you ‘are not gay’. SH _

_ No, I am bi. JW _

_ And u are hawt! JW _

_ U parading urself like that with those rings in your tits. Driving me bloody nuts. JW _

_ John. Go to bed. This is embarrassing. SH _

“Sherlock, why are you up so early?” Mycroft’s sleepy voice causes Sherlock to jump. He puts his phone back down on the nightstand and rolls over to snuggle against Master.

“Mm… my cock woke me up. Hurts a bit.” 

“You will get used to it like you did last time, pretty pet.” His brother’s hand sneaks into his curls, gently stroking his scalp and Sherlock sighs and relaxes. An adoring kiss gets placed against the nape of his neck. “Sleep some more, we can have a late lie-in. We will go explore Ao Nang in the afternoon.” 

He falls asleep, the little spoon in Master’s loving embrace.


	27. Chapter 27

“Mycroft, what are you doing –”

Sherlock’s words are silenced abruptly with a breathless kiss. His brother’s hands are all over him, caressing his skin through the fine linen of his shirt. When they break apart – there is an intensity in his Dominant’s normally cool blue eyes that burns directly into his own.

“People will see…” Sherlock protests rather feebly as he turns to face the glass – where he can see a throng of people under the strobe lighting – dancing, laughing, drinking – doing whatever that is goldfish do on the floor of a fancy exclusive nightclub. 

“Problem?” Mycroft’s lips are suddenly against the curve of Sherlock’s ear – and he cannot help but groan when the hot breath of his brother brushes against his skin. He feels lightheaded – the few drinks that he had consumed earlier in the day are slowly starting to get to him. There is a surrealness to the entire atmosphere as his Dominant’s fingers slyly unbuckles his belt, unzips his fly – and slides right into his trousers. Oh god. He whimpers when the digits wrap around his caged cock and firmly strokes; his eyelids fluttering shut as the metal digs cruelly into his sensitive prick. Someone is bound to notice him at any second now… 

“I will take your silence as a ‘no’.” His brother whispers silkily. “My nasty boy. Any moment now someone will turn around and see what a slut you are. They would tell their friends – and perhaps they will stay and watch you.”

“Myc… Sherlock’s voice is helpless as his trousers end up in a puddle on the floor. His brother maintains one possessive arm around his waist, as the other abandons Sherlock’s cock and proceeds to play with his scrotum before moving gradually towards his plugged hole. An agonized whine escapes him when Mycroft flicks his fingers against the base of the plug. 

“Mycroft – please…” He gasps – his hands are now braced against the glass. One of the dancers, a nimble female in her mid-thirties with rainbow glow-sticks around her wrists and neck had whirled around, and her gaze seemed to fall directly on Sherlock. God – how far has he fallen, that he would consider begging Mycroft to fuck him in view of this crowd. 

“Naughty thing – aren’t you? Walking around with your pretty little boy-cunt stretched wide open like this… hmm – almost as if you knew that there is some sizable cock for you to warm up later?” There is an obscene squelch and a mewl from Sherlock when Mycroft removes the plug with merciless twist while Sherlock can feel his prick leak copiously in response. “You think she saw you? The great consulting detective of our times plastered against a cheap transparent glass window – begging to be fucked?” 

Sherlock wants to be smart and say that he hasn’t started begging  _ yet  _ – but all his words seem to be stuck somewhere down his throat. 

“Or maybe she’s discussing with her friends about the fact that you’ve given up your career to be someone’s fucktoy – I am sure she saw your uselessly caged organ dangling against the window.” 

Fuck. Sherlock really shouldn’t be aroused at these words. The lady in question had indeed turned to her companions and is holding an animated discussion about something – and had thrown her head back in what appears to be raucous laughter. The entire front of his torso is pressed against the glass now – and Sherlock can feel his tits harden against the coolness of the glass as Master fingers his slick hole with several digits. 

He could imagine how debauched he looks from the other side. The unfocused gaze of his eyes. The slackened look of torturous pleasure on his face. The outline of rings pierced through his hardened nubs beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. The leaking impotent prick framed by the lacy silk of crotchless panties. Mycroft had forced him to look at himself in the mirror enough times. He looks the part of the fucktoy. The slut with the hole fucked so frequently that it is often referred to as a cunt. The sex slave he had roleplayed the night before with important distinction that he had chosen this fate for himself. The idea, combined with the merciless yet skilled application of fingers to his prostate, is enough to make his scrotum tighten and make Sherlock head toward an orgasm that would never manifest. 

“God. Fuck. Please.” and other words along those lines fall without restraint from his lips as his hips buck – desperately seeking friction; it causes his cock to rub against the cool window pane and he almost cries out against the unwelcome sensation. 

“Fuck, you are so hot, pretty pet.” Mycroft whispers. “So wanton. So desperate. So  _ mine _ _._ ” 

Sherlock gasps loudly when Mycroft fucks into him effortlessly – his well-lubricated hole easily gives way to Master’s cock and his well-trained muscles eagerly suck the hot organ deep within him. His brother takes him hard – the force of which makes Sherlock’s prick slap seemingly too-loudly against the glass pane. Even his tits are rubbing against the cool glass seeking for more stimulation. There is a certain element of danger which ought to dampen Sherlock’s arousal – as it feels that the force of their fucking would be enough to send them both crashing through the glass and into the Christmas Eve festivities going on outside the room. 

When his Master’s hand returns to tease his cock – this time tugging against the golden bars – his brain completely shuts down – leaving him awash in the delectable mixture of pain, denial and euphoria. Pure sensation. Eventually, he hears Master’s telltale grunt – and a flood of hot cum floods his insides in spurts. He is barely aware of the words leaving his mouth pleading for a release that his brother would surely deny, of the plug that is being carefully replaced back into his arse nor of the tears staining his cheeks. 

Mycroft’s arms are surrounding him completely now – his words now tender instead of humiliating. Sherlock's brain is slowly coming back online again. He wonders, not for the first time – why the hell does he need this? And it’s not just that he needs it – he loves this. He craves it – sometimes just as much as the drugs he used to take. Or perhaps maybe even more. The humiliation (public?). The domination. Only by Mycroft though – John’s text messages from yesterday had made him want to throw up. 

Is there something intrinsically wrong with him? 

“How are you feeling pet?” Mycroft asks him. Somehow, they are on a comfortable couch at the back of the private room now –  with Sherlock sprawled against his brother. 

“Awful.” He finds himself admitting, and his brother’s large hand caresses his face gently. 

“You are dropping. It’s alright, little brother – I’ve got you.” Mycroft whispers gently. “Do you want to come?”

“No. It’s just that… why do I need this so much, brother? Being humiliated, being your good little slut? Am I normal?” Not that being ‘normal’ had ever been a concern for Sherlock… but still… 

“Dearest one – normality is a ridiculous concept. There are many people that engage in the practices that we enjoy, from the regular run-of-the-mill goldfish to the rich-and-powerful. But, what is important to me is that you enjoy what we are doing. I would never want to hurt you for the sake of hurting you – I’ve said this before.”

“Mycroft… would you still love me even if I didn’t want to do all of this?” Sherlock asks a question that he had been afraid to ask for months.

“Of course.” Mycroft turns to look at him – his eyes serious, confirming what Sherlock needs to know for his brother. “God. I’ve adored you for ages – even before I got into all of this. I love you, brother mine. I meant what I said yesterday.” He then looks at him concernedly, “Do you want to head back?”

“In a bit… I am comfortable here.”

“Alright.” Mycroft says as Sherlock curls up against him – letting his cheek rest against his chest. Sherlock enjoys the feeling of his brother’s fingers messing around with his hair; it soothes him. “Take all the time you need, dearest mine. And here – drink some juice. Replenish those tears of yours – you might need them another day.”

Sherlock sips at the pomegranate juice from a straw before dozing off.

.

.

Mycroft nuzzles his face against his brother’s as they slowly waltz around the courtyard – the faint strains of the music from  _ Swan Lake _ playing from his phone resting on a lounge chair near the sizable pool. Life really couldn’t be better – he muses. He has an armful of sinfully beautiful baby brother who had asked for a dance before they had left the club at Ao Nang. He had convinced Sherlock that it would be a better idea to dance back at the villa – and indeed it was – outside with the darkening skies – streaked with golds, pinks, purples and intense reds in spots as the sun bids adieu to the day; a prelude to Christmas Day. 

The extended time that they have spent together during these holidays seem to have cemented their bond as a couple. Despite the drop that Sherlock had experienced earlier, there is a general calmness and contentment to his brother that had been missing for the majority of his adult years. He enjoys leading his brother – reading his body to anticipate whatever moves that Sherlock would pull out next so that he could do his best to highlight the creativity and skill of his lover with moves of his own. It is a bit like dominance and submission – it is the Dominant’s role to take their sub to places they’ve never been before – and in public, to best show off the sub’s assets. Or at least in Mycroft’s own worldview. 

Sherlock dances as he lives – on the edge, without abandon. With grace, showing off the sleek lines of his gorgeous body. As if he doesn’t have a respectably sized plug keeping a generous amount of Mycroft’s cum within him. 

Mycroft finds himself wondering if Sherlock could feel his fluids sloshing within his arse. A most arousing thought. 

When the sunset gives way to twilight – they both mutually decide to end the dance – with Mycroft spinning Sherlock into a deep dip. His brother smiles brilliantly at him as he helps him back up, and Mycroft guides him over to the Thai-inspired dinner set up nearby indoors – complete with a perfectly crisp Christmas goose after they had both managed to sufficiently catch their breaths. 

.

.

_ Oh my fucking god. Sherlock. I am so sorry. JW _

_ And so embarrassed. JW _

_ I was drunk out of my mind the night before. JW _

_ This is even worse than drunk-texting Sarah after we broke up. JW _

_ I know you are out on a case. You don’t take bloody vacations. JW _

_ Merry Christmas. JW _

_ I will see you in the New Year. JW _

_ I don’t blame you at all if you don’t want to reply. JW _

.

.

“Tell me, what do you see?”

Master asks, as he rolls a mirror in front of Sherlock. There is a riding crop in his brother’s hand, and he cannot help but shiver when the expensive leather of the tress runs down against his bare back, causing him to involuntarily shiver. Fuck. No matter how many times he’s seen himself in the mirror – it’s still difficult to reconcile that this is what he looks like now. 

Sherlock hadn’t even been hairy to begin with – unlike his hirsute Master – but he had a respectable amount of hair on his extremities, a treasure-trail going from his abdomen to genitalia and in his axilla. It hadn’t even been Master’s requirement that he be hairless from the neck down – Sherlock had spontaneously shaved all of it off himself barely a week or two into his new existence as a submissive. But... he had seen the wondrous expression on his Dominant’s face when Mycroft had noticed the lack of hair on his body – and he had kept himself bare since. 

There are the golden adornments – the wreath of leaves around his neck, the rings in his nipples (which on closer inspection had Mycroft’s personal insignia etched on their inner surface) and the equally golden cock cage. Above his collar there are the colourful blooms of hickeys which mark his neck in different stages of healing. 

God. What is there to say?

“I am waiting, pet…” The tress of the crop is used to tease his tits. He involuntarily moans – catching how he looks in the mirror. 

The epitome of pure hedonism stares back at him. 

“Master…” He whispers. “I see… me.” His voice falters.

“Tell me more, little brother.”

“I… uh. Look obscene. Pornographic…” He trails off helplessly, desperately trying to think of more adjectives. “Desperate. Denied. Marked.”

Mycroft chuckles fondly. “Do you know what I see, brother mine?”

“No, Mycroft – I do not.” Sherlock turns to look at Master. “Please… tell me.” He asks, curiously.

His brother kneels down and wraps his arms around Sherlock’s naked form with his crop still in hand. “I see my most beloved creature. He is a strong being – having the courage to submit and pursue his innermost desires. I see a fallen angel – an individual caught in a trap of his own creation.” Mycroft then says thoughtfully. “I did warn you at the beginning – didn’t I – brother dear?”

“That you would bring me down to the depths of depravity. I remember… Master.” Sherlock replies softly. “That you would turn me into a slave to my own needs.” 

“Do you want more, pretty pet?” Mycroft asks – his free hand gently stroking Sherlock’s cheek. “Beg for it.”

“God. Mycroft. Please.” The words come flooding out of his mouth. There is probably no limit to his depravity... “I want…”

“What do you want… hmm? Dearest pet?”

“To submit. To be marked. To be used as you see fit. Please… Mycroft. Master…” 

His brother grins. There is something feral about it. Dangerous. “Ah… my darling – you always want more, don’t you? True of all facets of your life…” 

All Sherlock could do is nod. His brother guides him to a sheet-covered mattress that had been laid out in the middle of the living room. “On your hands and knees – boy.” 

He immediately obeys, his knees and hands situating themselves on the firm mattress. The crop’s leather tongue caresses the skin of his bum before a loud ‘Smack!’ causes him to inadvertently jump – more loud than painful. Sherlock moans as the sudden movement causes the plug and cum in him to shift pleasurably within him. The crop gets applied liberally to his bottom, forcing the plug to continuously shift within him – gradually turning him into a mewling mess – as the dual sensations of pain and pleasure coalesce into the age-old climb towards a peak that Sherlock would never reach. And then – Sherlock hears Master drop the crop and he makes a strangled sound when his brother pulls the plug out slightly and rocks it straight back within him. 

“Mycroft…!” He almost sobs – and feels absolutely bereft when the plug is pulled out completely.

“Fuck. Your boy-cunt is sloppy.” His brother traces the stretched rim with a fingertip, using his digits to push his own cum back in. “I’ve seen whores with tighter pussies – pet.”

Sherlock’s face flushes a brilliant shade of scarlet. These humiliations never fail to make him blush redder than a tomato and they cause his cock to drip generous amounts of precum. He could hardly describe the noises that vacate his larynx when his brother’s hot knowledgeable tongue proceeds to lick out his hole – devouring his own seed from earlier. At some point, Sherlock had dropped his upper torso onto the mattress – and he is rubbing his nipples wantonly against the fabric, wanting more… needing more. 

“Please… fuck me…” He pleads. “Please, Master.”

“You are fucking insatiable, pet.” But Mycroft indulges him anyway; a minute later, his Master’s thick lubricated prick breaches him deliciously for the third time today. “Pinch your little tits till the pain is unbearable, slut.” 

Sherlock obeys, grasping each nub in between his fingers. He cruelly pinches and twists at his nipples, sending jolts of pain straight down his cock. It seems these days that any type of stimuli applied to these little bits of flesh go directly to his poor locked prick. And then all too soon – he feels something warm spill from Mycroft’s cock into the depths of his body. But… his brother’s prick is still very much erect in his bottom… oh… Master is pissing in his hole. The urine seems to go on forever, flooding his rectum with this incredible intimate warmth. Filling him up with a new sort of depraved pleasure. His moans fill his ears as he writhes; his fingers clenching the dark sheets. He’s never felt so full. The cock thrusts slowly into him a few times – seeming to push the piss deeper into his bowels. If only if this feeling could last forever… And then his brother pulls out – leaving Sherlock scrambling to try and close his gaping arsehole in a vain attempt to keep Master’s precious urine within him. The piss proceeds to leak steadily out of him.

“Where do you want this cum, gorgeous boy?” Master asks as lazily palms himself.

Without even taking a second to think, Sherlock rolls over, feeling the urine continuing to spill from his hole, feeling the urine dribble against his butt cheeks and he watches hungrily as his brother strokes himself – he desperately wants to replace Mycroft’s hand with any part of his own anatomy. When he tries to move closer – his brother moves away and says. “Careful, pet – or you won’t get anything. Now tell me, where should I paint you?”

“My face.” Sherlock replies. “Please, Master – I want your cum. Oh, god, yes – oh please, yes I want it.” 

Sherlock barely catches the first spurt of cum with his mouth. Master changes the angle, causing the ejaculated cum to decorate both his face and chest. 

“My filthy boy.” Mycroft leans over to grab his curls roughly as he straddles Sherlock and applies a lip-bruising kiss. “You’ve never looked more gorgeous – covered in the secretions of my cock.”

“Brother… please. Can I please cum?" Sherlock tries his luck. Mycroft takes the dropped crop and lifts up Sherlock’s caged cock with the tress. “I think – slut – the answer should be no.”

“Master…” Sherlock fights hard to keep his tears of frustration at bay. “Please. I would do anything.” 

“Anything?” Mycroft sits down on the mattress next to Sherlock’s kneeling form. “I will give you a chance... Let’s play a game, little brother.” Master reaches over for the nearby accent table, which holds various board games. He picks out a tetrahedral die from a box. “Feeling lucky little brother? Evens or odds?”

“Odds.” Sherlock replies after taking a few seconds to think. “What happens if it lands on an even number?”

His brother looks thoughtful. “There is another British Dominant who is vacationing nearby – who has a hobby in body-modification… Many Masters have brought their pets to him for such procedures...”

Oh dear god. Should he just take the original situation? Body modification… he shudders. That could be absolutely anything. 

“We’ve both enjoyed your pierced tits – brother. I was thinking of getting you pierced somewhere else… If the die lands on an even number, we will pay this Dominant a visit – and we will pierce a yet-to-be-determined part of your body – you will have absolutely no say – if it’s odd, pet – then you can cum whenever you want to for the rest of our trip.” 

Damn. Should he play or not? There is still a week left before they go back to dreary London. Is he even fit for making such a decision? His body is still so wired from being brought to the edge and denied once more. 

Where would Mycroft want to pierce him? Probably somewhere pleasurable… Or would his brother do it just for the aesthetics…? But yet – the idea of having Master adorn him like this is surprisingly hot. Or maybe not-so-surprising – it is taking their games of consensual non-consent to another level…

His aching prick is dripping once again at the thought.

“Let’s roll the die then, Master.” Sherlock says with resolution as Mycroft hands him the die.

The game… is on. 


	28. Chapter 28

The etched ‘1’ facing up on the bright yellow die (how can a colour look so cheerily saccharine?) lying on top of the dark bed sheet fills Sherlock with giddiness; he still loves winning over his brother. Always has. He grins – he would get to dictate his orgasms for the rest of the week…! But there is a tinge of disappointment with the victory… after all he is his Master’s pet… a terribly curious one… and god – what would Mycroft have done to him? 

Master had done his nipple piercings which Sherlock absolutely loves now that they have healed. He loves that they remind him that he belongs to Master; that they bring him both passive pleasure (such as when they delightfully rub against the expensive fabric of his tight shirts) and active – when he or Master plays directly with them, stimulating those otherwise inaccessible nerves within his tits. 

He can deduce that whatever Mycroft had in mind for him is something he isn’t comfortable doing himself… Genital piercings? Tongue? (due to the risk of nerve injury and paralysis?) But the latter seems too showy for his subtle brother – or maybe not? Mycroft seems to enjoy Sherlock wearing marks of His ownership in plain view of the British public well enough… 

“Brother mine…” Master says fondly. His blue eyes look gravely into Sherlock’s, although there is a flicker of amusement to those mesmerizing irises. “You do realize that this is a practice round… You agreed to it. In fact… it was your idea.”

Shit… so he did. Sherlock had wanted to check if Mycroft had doctored this die beforehand by throwing it in a test run. It had seemed fair enough. Fairly weighted… 

Master sighs, having had deduced his train of thoughts. “No, pet – I did not do anything funny to this die. Do you not trust your Master?”

“I do.” Sherlock replies quickly. “It’s just… that… this wouldn’t be the first time you set me up to fail…” 

“But, you like it.” Mycroft grins… it is not a benign expression on Master’s face… but rather like a predator bearing its viciously pointed teeth at its prey. 

A shiver descends down Sherlock’s spine. Why does he have an increasingly bad feeling about this? Shaking his head – freeing himself of these ridiculous premonitions, he picks up the die again, feeling its weight in his hand. 

“So, this one… will it also be a practice round?” Master asks innocently. 

“No.” Sherlock replies. He knows perfectly well that stalling is not going to change the probability of throwing another odd number. Best get this over with. 

Sherlock throws it. Internally, he finds himself begging for a ‘1’ or ‘3’. His scrotum is distended and full; his cock is aching agonizingly in its cruel confinement. He craves release like how a drowning man craves air. Although… some part of him wouldn’t mind if… No… don’t go there. 

He lifts his head up and sees a ‘2’. Fuck. Fuck indeed.

“Ah… little brother. Perhaps you should trust your Master more.” Mycroft reprimands with affection as Sherlock throws himself down onto the mattress theatrically in dismay. 

He looks up – in time to watch Mycroft divest himself of the shirt he had been wearing. Watching that hairy chest that Sherlock loves to bury his face in being revealed inch by inch. 

“Come here, boy.” Mycroft gestures to his lap and Sherlock goes reluctantly – wanting to cry with frustration instead. Master kisses his cum-stained face as he clambers into his brother’s lap – his fingers  stroke Sherlock’s back in a soothing manner. Sherlock whines when his brother cups his swollen balls, gently squeezing the sac. “Mm… so full and so lovely, pretty pet.” Mycroft remarks, before letting his hand drift to Sherlock’s locked cock. 

“Master… please.” Sherlock begs when Mycroft strokes the impotent organ. “I want to… so badly.”

“I know… darling boy. Would you like another chance?” The hand mercilessly keeps frigging and unrecognizable desperate noises emit from Sherlock’s larynx. 

“Oh… god… yes.” Sherlock manages – his eyelids are now squeezed shut, trying to bear and resist this pleasurable torture. The tension had coiled to the point where he feels like he would explode at any second. He’s never managed to cum while caged… and he knows doing so will be both unsatisfactory to himself and Master. Not to mention the inevitable punishment that would soon follow.

“Same deal.” Mycroft says as he removes his hand from Sherlock’s cock, causing him to slackly collapse against his brother in relief. 

“Okay.” Sherlock takes the die from Master’s hand. Fifty-fifty for an odd roll. A one-fourth chance that both his throws will be even. He tosses, his body shaking in need. 

A ‘4’ appears. He feels numb. 

“Another, brother mine?” Mycroft picks up the die while Sherlock finds himself denying reality. 

Without even thinking, Sherlock mechanically grabs the die and he gives it a vigorous throw. He doesn’t dare look. 

God. 

Please.

“You better see what it is… or I will consider it void.” Mycroft says casually in a tone that makes Sherlock immediately turn his neck with hope only to seal his doom. Another ‘4’ stares up mockingly at him at the edge of the mattress. 

The stochastic gods have forsaken him.

Sherlock breaks down and cries in frustration, hiding his face in Master’s chest. There will be no respite for him tonight – not to mention he will be going under the needle. Not once… but thrice. He will cut his losses here. His brother’s hand gently goes to strokes his hair. “There there, pretty boy. It won’t be so bad. I promise. Do you want to try again?”

Adamantly, Sherlock shakes his head. 

“Last chance.” Mycroft offers.

“No.” He replies – his voice muffled against Mycroft’s furry skin. God. Master had said sluts like him did too much of their thinking with their cocks – and what kind of rabbit hole has it led him to now? It is hard to believe that there was a time that Sherlock had no interest in sex, and that he had used his prick primarily for pissing. “Are you going to let me have any say at all?” His worried voice sounds odd and distorted. 

“No.” His brother says firmly. “Although, you are free to go imagine what might be done to you. In fact, I insist that you do so. You may write about your imaginings in our journal, if you wish. Perhaps it would influence my decisions. Or… perhaps… it may not.”

“What are you going to do?” Sherlock asks… with no minor trepidation. There is no one to blame but himself; he had agreed to the terms and conditions when he had first thrown the die for real in his eagerness to be freed from his cage and to have an orgasm.

“I don’t know yet. There are too many options. I probably won’t know until you end up on Master Zhang’s worktable. I am sure he has plenty of suggestions. Sh… precious pet. Trust your Master. I know what naughty boys like you like. Your safewords still apply. They always will.” Mycroft presses a gentle peck against his forehead. “And somehow, I think you are quite turned on by this.”

A muffled intelligible noise comes from Sherlock’s mouth.

“What did you say, brother?”

“Yes… Master.” He admits… somewhat mortified. 

“Dearest pretty pet. Don’t be ashamed. Or scared.” Master’s hand cups Sherlock’s cheek tenderly. “I will look after you. And, Master Zhang is trustworthy. He would be delighted to meet you.” And then Mycroft says, after pausing for a moment. “I will probably let you cum once or more before you get pierced. If you behave. In fact – I have a nice surprise for you.” 

“Mm… any hints?” Sherlock is now looking up at Master, whose palm reflexively goes to wipe away his pet’s tears and even some of the snot.

“Something you asked for a while back. Another Christmas present, if you will… from me.”

.

.

On Christmas morning, as quiet as a mouse – Sherlock sneaks out of the bedroom, leaving Master snoring. Buttoning his linen shirt – a nice shade of salmon pink, he intends to take a quick walk to the beach, as is his custom for the past few days. A strange box… or rather wooden crate catches his eye, under the festively decorated tree that had been set up by Mycroft’s discreet butler. Ever inquisitive, Sherlock diverts his attention to the crate, mindful that if his brother catches him in the villa wearing ‘improper’ indoor clothes without his permission, there will be a punishment. 

There are two envelopes (one black, one red) stuck to the crate, both with old-fashioned red wax seals stamped with a Chinese character – ‘Zhang’. Hm… is it the same Master Zhang that Master had mentioned yesterday? The black envelope bears Mycroft’s insignia drawn in golden ink, while the red one has the word – ‘SLUT’ – written in large letters. That’s rather presumptuous of him… Sherlock thinks with a tinge of resentment. Shrugging – figuring that this piece of mail is for him, he rips it off the crate and breaks the seal. He pulls out the crisp piece of paper, written in a neat simple script with an expensive ink pen and proceeds to read.

_ Dear S, _

_ I suppose your Dominant, or rather Master has not bothered to mention my existence to you. Understandable, as I have been roaming around the world in the last few years, learning about all the ways the art of Dominance and Submission has been practiced all around the world during my retirement. Ah… that makes me sound old. But, nevertheless, I am probably one of the few people your Master could define as a friend. We learned the craft together, in our relative youth, and I was A’s training Dominant and mentor when she became interested in the art herself.  _

_ It has been a custom amongst the three of us, to gift presents whenever one of us collars a submissive. A and I have put together a collection of items that your Master and you would find useful or just plain fun in your journey as a Submissive. Seeing that you are the only one that your Master will ever collar in his lifetime (unlike the rest of us) we may have gone a little overboard with the presents. Please open the crate with your Master present. Happy holidays, and I do look forward to seeing the one that your Master has lusted from afar for so many years.  _

_ Zhang Li Feng _

_ PS: Your Master has told me about your little wager. My table and needles await you.  _

Sherlock shivers upon reading the postscript. It drives him crazy – not knowing what exactly is going to happen to him. Three piercings – and they could go bloody anywhere. His ears, his nose, his lip, his tongue, his umbilicus, his cock, his ballsack – even his perineum. Master had said that they were going to visit Master Zhang in a few days – so the anticipation is going to kill him, along with his need to cum. From the writing, Sherlock could deduce that the Master was a former surgeon, not too far removed from practice.

His fingers move to play with his nipple rings, gently tugging them. A lascivious moan escapes from his lips as he applies just a little bit more force – sending a tingly pleasant sensation that goes straight down to his cock. Unzipping his trousers, he wraps his hand around his caged prick – stroking the flesh between the bars. 

He imagines it then – would his brother have his cock done? 

Maybe a Prince Albert – like some of the other subs he had seen. Master could connect thin golden chains to his tit-rings and the PA – ooh! Imagine attaching those vibrating clamps to his nipples; the vibrations would travel through the chains to his cock! It would feel good. Titillating. Sherlock deduces. Amazing, probably. A frenulum piercing could accomplish the same purpose – or even a perineum. So many delicious options. His flesh is attempting to engorge against the ruthless golden bars – and despite the pain (or perhaps with the pain) the pressure building within him still feels fantastic. He will put his trust in Mycroft to make the appropriate choices. And speaking of Master…

A sound gives him pause, causing him to stop his self-masturbation. Slowly, he turns around – only to see Mycroft leaning against the doorframe in a bathrobe, with his arms crossed. Oh fuck. His brother looks stern – already in his Dominant role, yet Sherlock could see hints of amusement peeking out from the facade. 

Mycroft muses that the amount of trepidation on his brother’s face is probably the most delicious sight he had ever seen underneath a tree. The very image of a naughty sub, caught literally – red-handed – with his hand down his trousers. And – his brother is clothed – no doubt intending to go outside for a walk and a swim at their private beachfront as he had done so every morning. Instead, he had been distracted by the crate that Anthea and Feng had sent over the night before. 

“I see that you intend to start the festivities with a nicely reddened bottom – little brother.” Mycroft finally speaks. 

At his words, Sherlock stirs, getting immediately on his hands and knees – finally cognizant of the compromising position that he had been found in. The salmon-pink shirt had been completely buttoned at some point as had the trousers, but his sub had undone the top few to play with his tits, and unzipped his fly to stroke his prick.  

“Which rules did you break – pet? We will decide on your punishment once we open that crate – no doubt there will be something that we can use on your errant bottom in there.”

Sherlock swallows, finding himself fidgeting. Why is this so hard? That he confess his transgressions like a schoolboy in front of his Master. It’s embarrassing, but he has no choice in the matter – with Mycroft looking expectantly at him. 

“I am adding five to whatever we decide upon later, boy. For your hesitation.” Mycroft taps his fingers against the wood of the doorway. “I am waiting.”

“Clothing.” Sherlock says – his face begins to flush with humiliation. At his brother’s sharp look, he continues. “I am to be naked or wearing proper garments indoors unless otherwise instructed by Master.”

“And just what are proper garments, pet?” 

“Not what I am wearing.” Sherlock hangs his head and at the expectant silence that follows, he adds. “Skirts, panties, bras, any form of lingerie, Master. But.. I was going out!” He couldn’t stifle his complaint.

Mycroft does not look impressed. “Well, you could go out in proper garments, pet. A skirt, and a bra – like you did on the first day. Or, you could have taken your clothing outside, and changed – like you did yesterday. Rules are rules, slut. And what is the other rule you broke?”

“Touching myself.” Sherlock admits, his face redder than a tomato. “My cock. Or rather… your cock – Master.”

“Well, let’s see what’s inside this box – and then we will decide what your punishment is going to be afterwards, pet.” 

They have to go find a pair of diagonal pliers to pry off the nails holding the slats of wood together. It feels reminiscent of their childhood, opening presents together underneath the tree on Christmas morning – minus the fact that Sherlock is getting punished after breakfast. The amount of things stuffed in the crate is mind-boggling. He laughs when Mycroft pulls out a candy-cane striped cane, complete with a hook. It looks absolutely absurd in the hands of his brother.

“You laugh now, little brother – but this one has quite a whack.” The ‘smack’ that travels through the air when Mycroft slaps the cane against his palm informs Sherlock that the material is actually quite dense, and could bruise his fair skin quite easily. The sound alone is enough to elicit an exciting shudder throughout his body; he both loves and hates being caned. Master remarks. “Your bum and thighs would match the pattern of the cane after I am done with you – so it’s quite fitting, I think.”

There is rope of all sorts of textures and colours, candles, a leather harness that would go around Sherlock’s torso, a fibreglass paddle with holes (which makes Mycroft grin, and Sherlock wince at the physics), a wooden ruler and a pair of clover clamps amongst a plethora of toys, some of which Sherlock has never had the (mis)fortune of experiencing. 

“It’s quite generous of them.” Sherlock speaks first. His brother would need to ship all this stuff back to London before they leave.

“No more generous than I was when they collared their subs.” Mycroft smiles, reaching over to ruffle Sherlock’s hair. “We go way back, Master Zhang and I – if you want – you may thank him for his generosity when you see him.”

“Thank him?” Sherlock ponders at this strange sentence. Oh. It hits him. Not verbally – well, it would involve his mouth. Just in a different kind of way. Damn, does he even want to suck someone else’s cock? And, his Master – his Mycroft – being as possessive as he is – allowing him to do such a thing? 

“I will leave it up to you, dear one.”

“Does his subs mind?” Sherlock finds himself asking. He doesn’t know what to feel if Master let others suck his cock. Actually –  he does, he would hate it.

“No. Feng has three subs. One of them is notably – his fraternal twin brother.” Mycroft grins. “He lives in Taiwan – so Feng does not see him often. Not everyone is monogamous. Anthea isn’t either – she has a boyfriend that she collared and a handful of male subs that she sees on a regular basis. Her boyfriend just finds the entire thing amusing. Ah, don’t worry – pet, you will be my only cocksucker.” Master leans over and kisses Sherlock on the cheek. “I have the darling boy that I’ve always wanted, and I have no problems letting you try new things with Feng and Anthea as long as I am present and in control of the scene.”

“You’ve shared subs with them, in the past.” Sherlock observes.

“Yes. But, brother – as I said earlier, I leave the choice up to you. I want you to explore your sexuality, but only in a way that you find comfortable. With people who will keep our secret and will respect our relationship. Understand?”

Mycroft is surprised when Sherlock throws his arms around him. “You are surprisingly, very selfless, Master. I will think about it.” His sub murmurs. “I love you. Even if I am getting punished for Christmas.”

“Ha.” Mycroft lowers his head to kiss his brother on the lips for the first time today. These experiences wouldn’t just be for his sub – Mycroft would derive a lot of pleasure from them too. From designing scenes to executing them. “Let’s go eat breakfast first, and then we will go deal with your naughtiness, gorgeous pet.” 

.

.

“Is that my tie around your neck, little brother?” Mycroft asks with amusement – aware that a) Sherlock hated wearing ties, b) did not own ties and c) had filched the navy-blue tie from his wardrobe. 

“Are you going to punish me for it, brother?” There is a defiant glint in Sherlock’s eyes. 

Mycroft simply leans back further on the couch, appreciating the rare view. His sub hadn’t even bothered to change out of the rule-breaking clothing. He rather likes it – his lover donning his attire. When they get back to London, Mycroft intends to gift his brother a few ties.

“Do you want to be punished for it?” Mycroft replies with a question. “Or do you think you’ve bitten more than you could chew today – little brother?”

Sherlock shakes his head, "No, Master."

“My office now – Holmes. I want your hands on my desk, your trousers around your ankles and your bum presented in the air in the usual position. You will think about the errors of your ways while you wait for my arrival.” Mycroft orders, sternly. 

“Yes sir! Thank you, sir.” 

His brother dashes off to do what he is told. Mycroft grins, getting up to decide what kind of implements he would need. He will combine the punishment that they had negotiated during breakfast with this scene that his brother had prompted. 

It’s difficult – he muses – to be both lover and Dominant to a sub. He is nowhere as hard or strict on his brother as the other subs that he had trained in the past. There is an old Dom in their circle that used to say that love ruined good submissives. But, yet – Mycroft finds that he does not care. All he’s ever wanted for his brother was for him to be happy and safe.

.

.

“I think, Holmes, that you have been here far too often for this course.” Mycroft remarks silkily as he enters the study. 

His brother – beautifully obedient – is bent over, displaying his lovely and unmarked arse with his trousers pulled all the way down. He doesn’t even look up when Mycroft approaches the expansive mahogany desk and lays down the tools that he may use for this particular punishment even though Mycroft knows that Sherlock is dying of curiosity. 

“What ever do you mean, Professor?” Sherlock asks, ever innocent. 

“If one didn’t know any better – I'd say you’ve been flunking all your assignments as an excuse to receive my attention, Holmes.”

“No, sir. Never, sir.” 

“Holmes, I do not appreciate liars. Do not mock my intellect by doing so. There are certain boys – you understand – that crave… or rather need regular discipline from a man.”

“Yes, Professor.” Sherlock finds himself saying.

“Does that describe you, boy?”

Sherlock flushes. Yes. That describes him, alright. Always craving for the firm hand or cock of Master. Who is most definitely a man. 

The hand of his brother grips his shoulder tightly – and he shudders. He could already feel the precum escaping from his slit.

“Answer me, Holmes.” 

“Yes, sir.” He admits, the syllables slip out quietly from his mouth. It’s still humiliating to say that he needs this, even though he has repeated this and more to his brother over the months. 

“Say what you need, boy.” His brother or rather the Professor is merciless.

“I need to be disciplined by a man, sir.” 

“I can barely hear you, Holmes. Say it again.”

Sherlock swallows audibly. “I need to be disciplined by a man, sir.”

“Good boy.” Mycroft croons, his hand goes over to stroke his brother’s head. He allows his fingers to linger in those silky curls while he admires the colour of humiliation on his sub’s face. Smirking, he adds, “It’s a good thing I find you pretty, boy – or I would have terminated our encounters as soon as I had determined the etiology behind your behaviour. Now – what ever should I do with you, Holmes?”

It is a rhetorical question. Sherlock does not answer as he hears his Professor moving the mysterious implements around on the table. It is a deliberate act, heightening the anticipation. His prick is already attempting to grow hard against the confines of its cruel cage. Sherlock is sure that by the time the gilded cage is removed, there will be imprints of the bars on his organ – and that thought makes him leak further. He moans, no longer able to contain himself. 

“Eager aren’t we?” 

“Yes, sir. Please… I need it. Discipline me, sir.” He already sounds so breathless.

“Ah, my polite boy…” Mycroft smiles adoringly at his sub, turning Sherlock’s head by his chin so that his brother could see his smile. “I think the clamps, hm? Unbutton your shirt. Leave the tie on. Then, hands back on the table.” 

The nipple clamps had already been negotiated earlier over breakfast. Sherlock had asked for them. And, Mycroft had decided on the use of the new clover clamps. Sherlock quickly unbuttons his shirt, eager to move the scene along. He sighs when Mycroft’s hand covers his abdominal muscles, gently stroking his skin. 

A finger dips slightly into his umbilicus, and his brother smirks, and whispers – breaking out of the scene. “What do you think about a piercing here, pet? I could buy you some sparkly gemstones to wear. Maybe you can learn how to belly dance for me?” 

“Whatever you want, Master.” Sherlock murmurs, resigned to whatever his Master chooses. Although now, his brain has an image of him with something shiny down there in his navel – and there is something… something about dancing for Master’s pleasure that does something for him. 

“At least one should be for purely aesthetic reasons, I think. You are awfully vain, anyways.” Mycroft leans over further while using a hand to guide his pet’s head. He kisses him, soundly before returning back to his Professor persona. “Now, the clamps.” 

The sound of the metal clamps being removed from the desk is enough to make Sherlock whimper. His tits are already erect; ever since they had been pierced, they stand readily to attention at the slightest of stimuli – often poking through Sherlock’s tight shirts. 

He winces when they are applied to the sensitive flesh, and he whines loudly when Mycroft drops the metal chain that connects the clamps, causing the clamps to tighten further. It hurts – and Sherlock knows that he would have to stay still during the punishment to avoid intensifying the pain… but it’s probably going to be a lost cause anyways. 

“Your safewords, pet.” Master says, and Sherlock dutifully repeats the traffic lights to him. 

“Four implements, six each.” Mycroft removes the wooden ruler from the desk – there is no doubt that this had been the toy that inspired Sherlock’s fantasy. He places the tip against his brother’s back, before drawing it down – eliciting shivers from his brother – of both arousal, and pain. “Did you ever get spanked with a ruler, boy? Rather traditional, I would say.”

“Yes, sir.” Sherlock remembers that he actually had. 

He feels surprisingly jealous. “Who?” 

“I think a private tutor Mummy hired when you were gone for school. He got annoyed with me one day and brought out the ruler… Mummy was furious when she found out. She gave him a lashing with her tongue and fired him the next day.”

“How did you feel about it?” Mycroft taps the ruler on his brother’s bottom, alternating buttocks. Sherlock must have been incredibly young when that happened. He suppresses his anger, knowing that it has no place in scenes like this. 

“I didn’t get off on it, if that’s what you wanted to know – sir. He made me bend over – like this, but I was allowed to keep my underwear on. I was mortified. But I didn’t tell Mummy – she found out when I couldn’t sit properly at the dinner table.” He then dares to ask, “Did you ever get spanked, Mycroft?”

His brother answers readily. “Yes, but not involuntarily. The public schools phased out corporal punishment just before I attended, little brother. The last spanking at Eton took place in 1984, if my source is correct. I was only eleven then. A proper Dom should know what each implement feels like. I don’t get off on pain like you do, pet. So – the experience was not too pleasant for me.” Mycroft kisses the nape of his neck tenderly, before whispering. “Ready, little brother? Let’s get on with it.”

Sherlock nods – he couldn’t imagine his brother, his Dominant, leaning over some surface and getting spanked – and Master orders. “Count and thank me for each stroke, boy.”

_ Smack! _

Pain blossoms on his left buttock as Sherlock counts obediently. “One, thank you – sir.” His brother is surprisingly light with the ruler, it feels more like an appetizer – preparing him for the other implements to come. God… did Mycroft choose  _ that  _ paddle? 

“Focus, Holmes.” The Professor says sternly. “Don’t make me give you more than you can handle.” 

“Yes, sir. Sorry sir. I will focus.”

The feeling of leather touches his legs. It doesn’t quite feel like a crop – which Sherlock enjoys too much for Mycroft to deem as a punishment. It seems to have three tails… oh it’s a tawse. Something new from the crate of toys. The leather rubs against his tender bottom, and Sherlock cannot help but moan – sounding rather wanton to his own ears. His brother gently slaps it against his arse, stimulating the flesh treated with the ruler and then…

_ Smack! _ Sherlock gasps at the sting – groaning as the force of the implement causes him to jerk – tightening those devilish clamps against his tits. 

“One… thank you… sir.” He manages. 

The second hit strikes his opposite buttock, causing him to flinch again. He finds it harder and harder to concentrate with each smack – the wavering sensations in his nipples and stinging bum are distracting him from his task. It is a relief when the number six comes out of his mouth, without him fucking up the order. It’s not as simple as it looks. 

Hands roughly grab at his hair, and he gets pulled into an ardent kiss. His brother is most definitely not sticking to his role – not that Sherlock minds. There is tongue and his senses are awash in Master: the smell, the taste – the affection… the pain, the pleasure. One of Master’s hands kneads at his abused bottom, and very unrecognizable noises leave him. And then, his brother arranges him back in his previous position and the  _ thwack  _ of a cane catches him off guard. 

“You don’t have to count now, little brother.”

Definitely no more roleplay now. The burning licks, three on each side, mark his buttocks and inner thighs. Tears are starting to leak from his eyes – the sensations verging on too much. His prick is still straining futilely against its confinement. And then, something that feels awfully like fibreglass brushes his hip. Fuck. It’s going to hurt. He can feel the holes drilled through the paddle against his skin.

“Brother…” Sherlock sniffs. “I don’t think I can take this. Not six.”

“You can.” Mycroft whispers with utmost gentleness. “Trust your Master, my gorgeous boy.” He pecks Sherlock’s tearstained cheek.

Sherlock nods, slowly. Mycroft kisses his other cheek, before standing back up straight. The cool fibreglass taps lightly against his burning bum. 

_ Smack! _ It literally takes Sherlock’s breath away. The chain connecting his clamps actually hits the surface of the desk – forcing him to gasp. The next few come quickly – but with less force – and somehow, just somehow – it smacks his previously spanked flesh just right and he groans – in pleasurable agony. He collapses against the desk when his brother drops the paddle – letting the cocktail of potent endorphins and other chemistry do their work – sending him into that lovely space reserved just for painsluts like him. 

The next thing he knows is that he is lying in their king-sized bed with his Master tenderly combing through his messy hair with his fingers. He barely remembers how he had gotten here, and not even the pain from when Master had removed his torturous clamps. A cool gel had been applied to his bottom to soothe the stinging and reduce the bruising. 

Mycroft smiles fondly at him. He cannot help but smile back – coming out of subspace in a contented and happy mood. 


End file.
